Dragon Kin
by Evil Is Relative
Summary: Ysmir has completed all the prophesies for the Last Dragonborn. She's made many enemies along the way, but found the family she never thought to have. Now it seems that she might not be the Last Dragonborn after all, for she has found another in her daughter. Now Ysmir must fight those who would use her child for their own ends, and discover if Alduin truly was defeated.
1. Chapter 1: Lakeview Manor

She was the last of her kind, a dragon born in the body of a mortal; the first such since Tiber Septim himself. The Greybeards had dubbed her Ysmir, the "Dragon of the North," a name she still went by, forsaking the name she had been born with along with her criminal past in Cyrodiil. Alduin the World Eater had called her the Last Dragonborn, as had the First Dragonborn, Miraak. She had completed the destiny foretold for the last of her kind.

So how the hell had her five-year-old just _thu'um_ed her older brother into cleaning her room?

"Darva," she said cautiously, looking down at the tiny form perched on a barrel in the girls' room, kicking her feet. "What did you just say?"

_"Gol Hah,"_ she said happily, sucking contentedly on a stick that had, not very long ago, held a honey-nut treat. Her violet eyes were the mirror of her mother's, as were her cupid-bow's lips and short, straight little nose. Her hair came from her father. "If I say '_Gol Hah'_, Blaise starts doing whatever I want. He never does what I want when I say 'please,' so '_Gol Hah'_ is better."

Ysmir groaned, rubbing her eyes with her hand and turning the gesture into sweeping her short red hair off her face. It wasn't hard to resist the weak, untrained _thu'um_, even repeated several times, but this certainly wasn't something she was expecting to do today. "Darva, that is a dirty word. It is on your list of no-no words from this moment on."

The little girl's face fell, making her look heartrendingly pitiful inside a frame of perfect golden curls. "But it's fun."

"Go practice on the dummy with Runa," Ysmir commanded, using her "no-nonsense" voice. Darva pouted and hopped down, scampering off toward the latched door to the basement. "And don't run with a stick in your mouth!" Ysmir shouted after her. She sighed, watching her youngest (and only biological) child disappear into the main room with barely a hand raised in acknowledgement. After a moment, she shook her head and walked over to Blaise, bending down to peer into his face and gauge how bad it was. "Blaise," she said, "Blaise!" adding more force the second time and reaching out to shake his shoulder. "Ah, hag's tits. _Gol Hah_," she muttered, and the boy blinked owlishly up at her. Well, if he was going to be mind-controlled for a while, it might as well be to do something he was actually _supposed_ to be doing. "Go do your own chores," she instructed, because she knew very well that he hadn't gotten around to them yet.

Blaise dropped the doll he had been holding and walked woodenly out the door. With a sigh, Ysmir sank onto Lucia's bed, scooping up the doll and smoothing the woolen hair back. One of Sofie's, it had a half-constructed dress on, pins still holding parts not yet sewn. Some of her own clothing looked a bit like that, thanks to the crafty girl and her penchant for leaving things half-constructed.

"Ysmir?"

She jumped, and then smiled, rising to go out to the main room where Farkas was gazing about, tracking mud on her floor. She frowned down at his boots and he grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I just saw Blaise go upstairs but he didn't talk to me or seem to see me. I think he might be getting sick or something."

"It's the latter," she sighed, and when he still looked confused, added. "The 'or something.'"

"House has gotten bigger," he remarked, coming over and giving her a hug redolent of man sweat and dog. Precious—the grouchy old ice wolf that had inexplicably followed Lucia home one day—sniffed his backside and sneezed.

"Yeah, who says you can't have four towers on a house anyway?" she said facetiously, wrinkling her nose as the ice wolf gave the man a disgusted look and trotted off. "I don't know if he told you, but your brother and I finished adding that bathing room off the basement. I think you should visit, soon. But don't take your clothes off until you get there; the girls are downstairs."

Farkas stepped back and lifted his arm, sniffing an armpit. "Ah," he said, heading upstairs to the main bedroom to grab some clothes. Ysmir shook her head, smiling slightly, and turned to the door, giving the other twin a wave.

Vilkas wasn't looking at her. His head was tilted back, eyes narrowed as he sniffed the air. "Sulfur," he noted.

"Could be either from when Runa was teaching Lydia how to cook, or from when Blaise and Alesan found my lock picks and got into the Alchemy lab. Hence, new tower. The old Alchemy lab is now unfit for anything but staying empty with the windows wide, wide open." She sauntered over, grinning as he finally took notice. Farkas was easy to lure into bed; Vilkas needed to be reminded that he had a libido sometimes, depending on what was on his mind. "You two were gone awhile."

"Bandit job," he said shortly, looking down at her with cool gray eyes. "There were more than twice as many as expected, and we had to form a plan."

One eyebrow raised, Ysmir echoed "'We'? Since when has Farkas helped with the planning?"

"He mostly hunted," said a smooth female voice. Ysmir glanced around Vilkas's unfairly broad shoulders and grinned at Aela, eeling around Vil to embrace the Huntress.

"I almost forgot what you look like, it's been so long since you visited," she teased, releasing the armor clad woman. Aela chuckled, hitching her pack up further onto her back. The pair were about as different as two women could be on the surface—mage and warrior, dragon and wolf—but where it counted they were alike as sisters. What had started as a rocky acceptance had solidified into a deep friendship over mutual loss and battles fought together: Both knew they would gladly lay down their life for the other, and that spoke more than any differences in temperament, occupation, or race. "Will you be staying?"

Aela thought for a moment. "For a night or two, if you have the room to spare."

"The Honorhall children aren't visiting any time soon," Ysmir assured her, leading them both further into the house. "Inigo is off teaching Ma'Rakha some wilderness survival skills; the bard (what was this last one's name?) quit; Sofie, Lucia, and Lydia went off to Riverwood to get some groceries; Runa and Honey-bee are in the basement; Alesan and Aventus are fishing in the lake; and Blaise…is doing his chores."

Aela and Vil ground to a halt, staring at her like she had just told them Alduin was in the apiary. "He's what?" Vilkas—ever the disciplinarian and thus knowing full well what a pain it was to get Blaise to do anything he was disinclined to do—demanded, sounding slightly stunned.

"I'll explain later, after the ears in the walls have gone to sleep," she promised, wagging her fingers at the upstairs balcony with an amused grin. Aventus grinned right back from where he had been unashamedly listening, holding up the bucket he had returned to fetch when she raised an eyebrow. The boy slipped back down the stairs and out the door with a wave of both greeting and farewell, making scarcely more noise than a mouse.

The adults watched this for a moment before Aela glanced back at Ysmir. "You know, you really should put a bell on him."

.

* * *

.

Much later, after Runa and Darva had come up, the boys returned, Blaise woke up wondering what had happened, and Aela and the twins had "helped each other bathe," Ysmir poured herself a glass of Cyrodilic Brandy while the Companions wolfed down their beef stew and ale, reflecting that they probably hadn't had much but trail rations and whatever they caught as wolves for the last week. She sipped, reflecting on how much her life had changed since she had tried to sneak across the border into Skyrim. The girl that had left Cyrodiil, the mistrustful little teenager with an unnatural affinity for fire, had as good as died that day in Helgen. Something had responded under that black dragon's gaze, past terror and wonder. She had known that Alduin was her kin, somehow, and that this was why she had always felt a slight disconnection with people, why she loved fire, and why she dreamed in a language not spoken by anyone she had ever met.

The Dragonborn was the ultimate dragon slayer, Delphine had told her. Delphine, as far as Ysmir was concerned, could go die in a fire. Preferably dragon fire. Killing rampaging dragons was one thing, but Paarthurnax? That craggily old _dovah_ was the closest thing Ysmir had to a grandfather, and the Greybeards were like her crotchety old uncles. He was far kinder to her than her supposed real "grandfather," the Thalmor bastard who had liked pretty Imperial maids and had used his little half-blood daughter and her strange, violet-eyed child as his personal thieves and saboteurs. When she was not-quite fourteen, she quickly turned into an asset to be traded to a hideous old Imperial duke as his wife in exchange for some treachery. Ysmir had been a widow before the night was out, presumed dead in the conflagration she left in her wake.

Ysmir closed her eyes, not letting the memories upset her. That was why she had decided to stay in Skyrim, after all, in the land of the man supposedly her father, and the mercenary that had tried to save her mother, getting them both killed for his efforts. She could have a fresh start here, she had thought, but she had never imagined the scope of what her life would become. Looking around at her friends, she reflected that she would have it no other way.

Her friendship with the Companions was an odd one. She probably would have met them sooner if she had decided to explore Whiterun rather than run off to the College of Winterhold right away. She supposed she should go back there eventually, but that Ancano reminded her far too much of The Bastard for her comfort. It was while out on a task for the College that she had found Skjor in werewolf form, injured and too faint from blood loss to move.

Ysmir had always had a bad habit of taking in strays.

Through Skjor, who was gone now, she had met Aela, his lover, and then the twins, who quickly became hers (Farkas first; Vilkas only joined them after some bottomless pit named Sam had challenged him to a drinking contest. Vil never spoke of what else had happened that night, only once letting slip something about a goat.). Not eager to marry anyone ever again, Ysmir happily shared her bed with both of them, as did Aela, who Ysmir secretly thought had never fully recovered from Skjor's death. At any rate, the twins were wonderful dual father figures to her clan of half the orphans in Skyrim, with Vilkas being the patient but foreboding disciplinarian, and Farkas basically another giant child to romp with.

Aela had been somewhat taken aback by this, having neither a lot of experience with children, nor an overabundance of maternal instinct at the time. It seemed to awaken the more time she spent around the children, although she typically only spent a few days at a time with them until they got old enough not to mob her. A few late-night conversations with Ysmir made her suspect that the Huntress would like to carry on the line of Shield Sisters in the next few years. In the meantime, she was cultivating Runa to one day join the Companions, and Runa was exceptionally fond of her Auntie Aela.

"So, Blaise," she said, pouring herself a second cup of brandy. The werewolves stopped shoveling food into their faces and looked up at her questioningly. Gravy leaked down Farkas's chin and she absently patted it off with a napkin as he swallowed, his mouth so full of food his cheeks looked like a chipmunk's. "He was mind-controlled this afternoon."

Vilkas scowled, his brow lowering in a way that promised vengeance on anyone who had the audacity to mess with any of the children that had won their way into his heart. "Who? One of the mages looking for that alter we removed?"

"A vampire?" Aela guessed.

"A cultist?" Farkas put in, barely coherent around a mouthful of potato.

"Worse," she told them, and saw them steel themselves. "Darva."

Puzzlement passed over Farkas's face, "Honey-bee? How did she mind-control anyone?"

Ysmir's shoulders slumped. "Do you remember two months ago when those bandits attacked and one of them held her hostage? I couldn't do anything with him using her as a shield so…" They looked at her blankly, and she swirled the brandy in her glass before continuing, "When I was on Solstheim, the First Dragonborn used a Shout that could control the people's minds. I learned it to use on dragons, but this once…"

"You can mind control people?" Vilkas surmised, his brow lowering in a fierce frown.

Ysmir scowled at him. "Just because I can doesn't mean I do."

"The more pressing issue," Aela said, putting a hand on Vil's arm, "Is that now a five-year-old can bend minds, and that in order to do so, she might be—"

"Dragonborn," they all finished together, the others with wonder, Ysmir glumly.

"But you were the Last Dragonborn," Vil protested, getting right to the heart of the matter.

"Apparently not," she replied, watching what little was left in her glass glisten in the firelight. Her hand shook slightly, sending tiny wave reflections to dance over the skin of her hand; she hoped they didn't notice.

"That's amazing!" Farkas enthused.

Aela huffed, giving him a stern look. "Think, Ice Brain. If Darva is Dragonborn, then Ysmir isn't really the Last Dragonborn, now is she?"

He looked mildly confused, "So?"

"So the Last Dragonborn is supposed to defeat Alduin," Aela elucidated, following Ysmir's train of thought as easily as she would a wounded deer.

Vilkas shrugged, tearing the end off a loaf of bread and using it to mop up the last of the juices in his bowl. "I think you're worrying too much about this, Ysmir," he revealed, watching her pensively. "Alduin has already been defeated. By you. I don't think we have anything to worry about, beyond the fact that a five year old can perform an unknown number of Shouts."

"I never got his soul," she reminded him soberly. "His death was nothing like the other dragons, and according to Esbern, he has a destiny of his own to fulfill. I didn't stop that destiny, I just delayed it." Vilkas shrugged again, still unruffled, and she sighed, a bit put out at their nonchalant attitude. "Listen, whatever you may think, I have to get to get to the bottom of this, even if I have to go talk to the Blades. Paarthurnax is not exactly easy to find at the moment, but I'll call him if I have to." Ysmir hesitated a long moment. "Aela, I left many of my more dangerous books in my home in Raven Rock, so that the children wouldn't get into them. I need one of them. I know you wanted to meet the werewolf pack there, and I could use the backup, if you wouldn't mind accompanying me."

"Of course," the Huntress reassured her, concern in every line of her statuesque form. At least one of them was taking this seriously.

"What about us?" Farkas asked after exchanging a telling glance with his brother. Ysmir sometimes wondered if they had some sort of mind-linking twin bond or something when they did that.

"I need you here at least until Lydia comes back," she told them, not allowing herself to think on why she wanted neither of them on the ash-strewn island where she had fought the First Dragonborn. For one thing, she was pretty sure they could smell deception. For another, she didn't want to think too closely about what she was going to do.

**.**

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**Hello, everyone! Welcome to my first fanfiction. Please let me know what you think. Some things I wasn't able to fit in the description: This is rated M for mature themes, violence, and non-explicit sexual content. If that makes you uncomfortable, just skip down to the next scene or chapter break, as I deliberately try to put such scenes at the end so people can do just that.**

**Story contains: The Companions, Miraak and his cultists, Mage Collage and co., Inigo the Brave, Ma'Rakha Adoptable Khajiit child, Babette and the Dark Brotherhood, Serana and the Dawnguard, and various NPCs.**

**All characters but a few belong to Bethesda. Inigo belongs to Smartbluecat. Ma'Rakha is from My little kitty Ma-Rakha-Khajiit boy by Ryeong. Both modders were kind enough to give me permission to use their characters in this work.**

**Note: If you review I will love you for life, and will respond to your review next chapter posted, or through PM. I check every day for new ones, and they really encourage me to continue this.**


	2. Chapter 2: Return to Raven Rock

_"Od Ah Viing!"_

Aela took her hands off her ears and glared at the Dragonborn. "I hate it when you do that."

Ysmir shrugged apologetically, gazing across the water at the manor, nearly lost in the morning mist rising off Lake Ilinalta. She had left Vilkas in charge until Lydia got home, but Runa especially was old enough to keep everyone more or less in line by now. It was only for the occasional bandit or other such annoyance that one of the heavily armored adults was needed. She had considered calling Odahviing from nearer the manor, but now she was wary of what Darva might pick up, and it was early enough that she didn't want to wake the youngest children. Lucia, always an early riser, had paused milking the cow to give her a goodbye cuddle, whispering to her to come back safely, making her wonder if perhaps she should explore other avenues of inquiry first.

She shook off the doubt with effort. There was something she really should see, and it was long overdue—but she couldn't think about that now. "Do you think Farkas is interested in Lydia?"

Aela looked startled. "What? Why would you think that?"

"He was gazing off toward Riverwood with a flushed face."

Aela rolled her eyes. "Mages and their words. You could have just said he was blushing."

Ysmir grinned, "I could have, but what fun is that?"

The Huntress snorted, "Forget going back to Winterhold, you should go to Solitude and join the Bard's Collage."

_"I hear you I hear you the Dragonborn comes!"_ Ysmir warbled at the top of her lungs. Across the water, Precious started howling. So much for not waking the children.

Aela winced, a dog-like whine escaping her compressed lips. "I take it back."

"Is that a new _zun_, a weapon, _Dovahkiin?"_ the red dragon asked, hovering above them, wings sounding like the snapping sails of the biggest ship in existence. "_Yor strah wah nuft lovaas?_ A new way to use the Voice?"

Ysmir glanced at Aela, "Well, it does appear to inflict pain." She paused to cover her face as the massive dragon landed, gazing up fondly into his face. "I have a little problem, Odahviing, that I was hoping you had some advice for."

He cocked his head, his thoughtful exhalation breezing warmly over her face, mussing her hair. _"Kusah_. This is not what you normally call me for,_ Dovahkiin_. _Fos eylok do diron?_ What sort of problem?"

"Before I tell you, I must warn that this must be kept secret for now," she said, eyes shadowed.

_"Do rahlo_. Secrets I have in abundance, _Dovahkiin._ It will be no _brudaht_ to keep yours," he assured her, lowering his head to gaze into her eyes. "Tell me your _diron_."

"My daughter used the Voice yesterday," Ysmir said, watching his eyes widen. "I may not be the Last Dragonborn. What does this mean, Odahviing? Was Alduin not defeated? Will she one day have to face him herself?"

_"Krosis," _he breathed, craning his massive head on his serpentine neck to look at the house. "I had not thought little _Kulaas _would inherit the soul of the _dov_. But she has used _rotmulaag?_ This is _zurun eldraag_, unexpected. It does not fit with the Prophesy, but fate can be…_motmahus."_

Ysmir snorted. "In my experience, fate is anything but elusive. In fact, it's downright pushy."

"What did he call Honey-bee?" Aela asked, gazing suspiciously at the mass of scales and muscle before her. Aela was still suspicious of the dragons, and rightly so. Her friend did wish she would ease up around Odahviing, though. Of all dragons, she trusted him and Paarthurnax most.

"The dragons have their own name for Darva: _Kulaas,"_ the Dragonborn's smile held a hint of laughter. "It means princess."

_"Vrah._ The Old One, he picked it. Some thought it _rem kriis_, pretentious for a human child. Perhaps he knew his kin when she was born," the way he said that made her wonder if perhaps he had as well, but since he did not feel it worth mentioning, she didn't push. Maybe he was embarrassed not to have mentioned it at the time, though he had been fairly preoccupied with how tiny and wiggly the infant had been. Honestly, the dragon had spent nearly as much time staring at the child in complete disbelief as Ysmir had.

Ysmir sighed. "It would not surprise me. If you see Paarthurnax, would you mind telling him that I might be calling? Not why, of course, but that I might have need of his wisdom."

A hot breath of air heralded Odahviing's chuckle. "I suspect, _Dovahkiin,_ that once hearing that you wish to talk he may seek you out. The Old One enjoys _tinvaak_ with whoever will indulge him." Ysmir laughed aloud and Odahviing's jaw dropped in a smile wide enough to inhale her and not notice. "What now will you do, _Dovahkiin?_ _Fos stig fen hi kuz?"_

Ysmir wrinkled her nose. "I'm off to Falkreath, where I can take a carriage to Windhelm, then a boat to Raven Rock." At this rate, she really should just hire another private carriage driver, but they'd been avoiding her after what happened to the last one. As if she had any control where a dragon would drop a mammoth carcass!

_"Tol los rigirtiv, Dovahkiin_. You go south and west to go north and east. It will take many days. _Zu'u los kusahraal._ I will help you in your quest. Pack light, and I will take you and your _mungrohiik koriid_ to the island. It has been an age since I last saw it, though once I thought to call it home."

Well that was interesting, but his tone was not one that invited questions, and she did not want to lose his good will. _"Nox hi, Odahviing."_

.

* * *

.

Aela was gazing around curiously, her nose twitching slightly as she took in the sights and smells of Raven Rock—or perhaps because of the ash. Seagulls arched overhead, though not nearly as many as in a less ash-strewn port, and Dunmer and Redguard sailors rushed back and forth to get things stowed away on the ships that filled the docks. Second Councilor Adril had met her coming off the ship, having been personally overseeing some of the ebony shipments out to Blacklight, and had greeted her enthusiastically. Apparently further forays in the barrow beyond the mine had unearthed several new ore veins, as well as a small supply of stalhrim that, if carefully husbanded, crept back over the coffins every few weeks to be mined again. The priest had reluctantly given the go-ahead, so the bodies were removed from the crypt, incinerated just in case, the ashes interred in urns and returned to the potential draugr's original resting place. After what happened at Kolbjorn Barrow, the Dunmer miners were much more comfortable with cremated remains than ones that could get up and hack at them, though they had been tightly sealed to prevent them from turning into Ash Spawn. Ysmir didn't bother to tell him that they would need a heart stone for that.

"So many elves…" the werewolf murmured as they walked through the main part of town.

"Many refugees out of Morrowind settled here," Ysmir told her in an undertone, buying some essentials for the house as they passed through the market. She wondered what Aela would think of sujamma. She stopped and chatted a bit with a few of the people she knew before heading to Severin Manor. Aela's eyebrows shot up to her hairline as they entered and immediately went downstairs, but Ysmir was too keyed up to notice. Just being back in Raven Rock brought back so many memories and feelings, as if the years were layers of ash being stripped away, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

"Are you expecting to be attacked or something?" the Companion asked, picking up on her mood.

"No…I just…have to do something I rather wouldn't. Those books I told you about earlier? They aren't the kind of books you read," she fidgeted nervously as she sank onto the bed, drawing out a pair of enchanted gauntlets from the chest at its foot and donning them. With a spell on them to increase her stamina and health, they made her feel just the teensiest bit better about what she was going to do.

Aela cocked a hip and placed her fist upon it. "What kind of books are they?" she demanded.

Ysmir let out an explosive breath, "They're portals to the Plane of Oblivion called Apocrypha, the realm of hidden knowledge."

The other woman gaped at her for a moment, and then began to curse furiously. "Mages! Always meddling where you don't belong! Hermaeus Mora is a vicious Daedra, Ysmir! People go mad when they deal with him."

"I'm aware. That's why I keep the Books here, in that," she waved to the bookcase, then realized Aela would have no idea what she meant. Rising, she gestured for the Huntress to join her at the shelf. "Help me, would you?" she asked. Struggling and grunting, the two women moved the heavily-laden shelves to the side, to reveal what looked like a section of badly repaired wall. To a thief, it would look as if the homeowner was trying to hide it, but Ysmir took out her dagger and slid it beneath one of the bricks, levering it out to reveal the mushroom-shaped button behind it.

She glanced at Aela, who frowned at the extensive secrecy. Ysmir reached in and slid her fingertips under the button, pulling up. If pressed, the button would reveal a hidden needle that would poison the presser. It had to be pulled. The bricks slid sideways, opening a tiny half-room no bigger than a cupboard, containing a large rectangular Dwemer chest. Ysmir had once tried and failed to break into this chest, so difficult was the lock. When she had found herself in possession of the Black Books and realized their danger, she had gone back into the ruin and hauled the chest out with her, taking it to a locksmith and telling them that they could keep whatever they found inside so long as he did not damage the lock and made her a key.

On the off-chance that any thieves that came to Severin Manor were better lock pickers than her, she had hid the chest. She doubted it though—she had enough loot deliberately placed that any thief would be too full-up by the time they got back here, even if they had extra pockets. Also, she was dammed good at picking locks.

Sliding the key in, she turned the lock home. The gears whirled and the domed lid slid back. The Books lay inside, all seven of them, with the Oghma Infinium filling out the second stack to make two even stacks of four books each. She shivered, glad her gauntlets had gloves. Then she drew out the first pile and pulled "Waking Dreams" from the bottom, carefully setting it aside and replacing the rest, locking the chest, and closing the wall. She didn't replace the shelf, in case she needed to put the Book back in a hurry.

"I'm going to sit on the bed and read this," she explained to Aela. "It won't be pretty, and I'll be tired and shaken when I come back out. I won't be able to defend myself like that."

"I understand," Aela replied, looking unhappy about all this. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Enough people wanted to prove that I wasn't Dragonborn that if there had been _any _doubt, they would have brought it up. Hermaeus Mora is the Prince of Forbidden Knowledge. If any record exists that might tell us if I'm not the Last Dragonborn, he would know it," Ysmir replied, going and sitting cross-legged on her bed. Normally, it was a rule with her that you took off your shoes before getting on a bed. Since that would mean walking barefoot in Apocrypha, however, she made an exception. Taking a deep breath, she opened the Book.

A line of sickly green runes wrapped about her, quickly transforming into a thick black tentacle. Aela made a sound of disgust, jumping back. As her sense of reality dimmed, Ysmir heard her say, distantly, "Ugh! That can_not_ be good for you!"

_"No,"_ Ysmir thought, _"It's not…"_

_._

* * *

.

She was back. The realm of Apocrypha lurched and spun around her, islands of books and fibrous matter suspended above a black sea. Masses of writhing tentacles rose from the sea, descended from the sky, whipped at her from the stone-lined pool not ten feet from her. That was new; there hadn't been a pool there the last time she was here. The Prince of Forbidden Knowledge must be redecorating, but then the landscape of this place was always changing, even if the inky ocean and sickly ambient glow never faded. Making her way along the page-strewn paths, she paused when a flickering shadow caught her attention. _"Gol Hah Dov,"_ she breathed. The shifting, glittering smoke coalesced into a figure that once was a human, but all that was left of that were its arms. Clothed in rags, its head looked like a half-shriveled squid. It peered at her blandly, the long fingers on its emaciated hands twisting about each other, as if it were nervous or confused.

"Take me to your master," she commanded, and it turned, floating away from its eternal search for whatever bit of knowledge had brought it here as a human. She followed it through the ever-changing hallways and bridges of the island, ignored by Seeker and Lurker alike once they caught sight of her guide, and halting in a small room that held nothing but a scrye. She touched the strange, glowing flower and it folded in on itself.

The door swung open silently, and the figure within looked up, freezing momentarily. "I never expected you to return to this realm, Dragonborn."

"Hello, Miraak."


	3. Chapter 3: At the Summit of Apocrypha

**Please see this version of Miraak's unmasked face, which inspired the one I use: Miraak the Dragonborn by Jowain92 on deviantart.  
**

_._

_._

_Six years ago…_

"And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha," Miraak said, walking slowly toward her. Ysmir watched him warily, one hand on Sahrotaar's neck. "No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended. He is a fickle master, you know. But now I will be free of him. My time in Apocrypha is over. You are here in your full power, and thus subject to my full power. You will die, and with the power of your soul, I will return to Solstheim and be master of my own fate once again."

"Nice speech," Ysmir replied, heart pounding. The draw she always felt around dragons was so intensified around this other _dovah_ in human form. Every time she saw him, it got worse. "We've met before, if you recall. You stole my dragon souls, you lazy bastard."

Miraak paused and laughed, sounding surprised. "Lazy? I have been plotting, planning, and preparing for longer than you can imagine. I've amassed followers, gained devotion—"

"Turned random citizens into your own private building crews, I know. With all that power, you'd think you'd be able to go out and win your own dammed dragon souls, without stooping to stealing mine," she huffed, hands on her hips.

The First Dragonborn paused to consider her. "Is that all you're angry about? Me stealing your prey?"

"Well, leaving Alduin to wreak havoc is also on the list," she replied acidly.

"Felling Alduin was a mighty deed, and I thank you for it. He would have proved troublesome to me," Miraak said, circling her. His smooth voice had a tightness to it that put her on edge, and she was uncomfortably reminded of the many times she had slain a dragon and needed to pull her companion into the bushes. It was the main reason she only traveled with men she knew and trusted.

"Should have left him alive a bit longer, I guess," Ysmir growled, irked. "Perhaps you would have destroyed each other and saved me the trouble."

Miraak laughed again, sending shivers down her spine, and not because she was afraid. In a lot of ways, it would have been better if she were afraid—fear she had dealt with before, had conquered many times. This was a different beast altogether. "Sahrotaar, aloft," he commanded, and the dragon took off in a swirl of air that smelled of decay and old ink. "They wanted to use me to deal with Alduin—Hakon and the rest. I chose otherwise."

"I know," she replied, refusing to turn to face him as he circled behind her but keeping careful track of his steps, "Gormlaith told me, when _I_ went to Sovngarde to defeat him." That woman had quite a bit to say about Miraak, most of which Ysmir now wished she had kept to herself.

"Gormlaith…" the First Dragonborn said meditatively. "I remember her."

"And she _certainly _remembers you," she said before she thought, somewhat more emphatically than she might like.

"Does she?" he asked, a definite smirk in his voice, and Ysmir began to regret talking. She should have throttled down her need to speak with another Dragonborn and gone right to the killing. She was as bad as Paarthurnax.

She had forgotten to keep track of his footfalls. Ysmir suppressed a flinch as her enemy was suddenly just out of arm's reach, looking down at her. This close, she could see his eyes were two different colors; one a lovely sky blue, the other slitted and yellow, as if after so long his dragon soul had clawed its way out to change his flesh. The skin was dark around the eye, but she couldn't see more through the shadow of the mask. Instinctively, she turned to face him, fire enveloping her hands, flickering through her hair and over her shoulders, from behind her eyes as with no other mage she had ever met. Her own, personal version of a Flame Cloak, similar enough to Dragon Aspect that she now wondered if it were a manifestation of her _dovahsil, _somehow activated without a _thu'um._ Vilkas had once told her that she looked beautiful and terrifying at once when she was like this.

She couldn't know it, but Miraak agreed. "I had forgotten," he said around the tightness in his chest, the feeling of connection that had invaded what he thought was a heart long withered to such things. "It's been so long since I met another _Dovahkiin._ I didn't anticipate this."

Puzzlement crossed her features—Miraak had always thought she was striking, but that expression was positively endearing, and it took him off-guard. _"Eh draaf,"_ he muttered, glancing away for a moment. He didn't want to kill her. She was the key to his regaining his own life—had, in fact, destroyed his other efforts at freeing himself—and he didn't want to kill her. Why? Because she was just like him, and so enticingly unlike him, and because he found her so very alluring. He doubted she knew, but most _dov_ were male. Females were born one to every eighteen or so males, and so were protected. It was one of the _dov's_ greatest secrets, for it could be used against them so easily. And so here he was, a man with a dragon's soul, struggling with the fierce urge to protect a female _dovah_, and the instinct to produce more _dov._

Well, couldn't have that ruining his plans.

_"Fo Krah Diin!"_ he Shouted, and she cried out at the sudden icy assault. He had expected to extinguish her fire, but she flared up and dove at him with a yell of pure fury, a dragon in a terrifyingly weak body, her flaming hands curled into claws. He drew his sword and slashed at her, but she wiggled out of the way like a ferret, exposing a flash of skin along her thigh where something had rent her clothing.

Ysmir ducked under the sinister blade and shot fire at the First Dragonborn from both hands, her face a snarl. Fire bloomed off him as he staggered back, taken aback by the sheer force of the assault. "I didn't get this old by being stupid, Dragonborn," he mocked. "Dragon fire has no effect on me, and spells are blunted."

"I didn't become one of the best Enchanters in Skyrim by not learning how to see enchantments!" she shot back, and Miraak was momentarily struck dumb as part of his glove crumbled to ash, just one single part, but the buffering effect stopped as the magic seeped out into the stagnant air. She shook her hand and lightning crackled between her fingers, arching off the tips, giving Miraak just enough warning to enact a ward before using a Shout to put distance between them long enough for him to reevaluate his strategy.

"You are strong. Stronger than I believed possible. You could have been mighty, if fate had not decreed otherwise," he said, not letting his regret color his words.

_"Wuld Nah Kest!"_ she retorted, bringing her within a few paces of him. The Dragon Priest dagger in her hand cut across his side as she passed, an exquisite irony he was sure she had meant to rub his face in. He staggered slightly as poison seeped through the wound, draining both his physical and magical reserves. Sheathing it as she whirled, the Last Dragonborn's hands contorted in a way that confused him momentarily, it had been so long since he had seen the action. His eyes widened and he hastily erected a spherical ward to keep out the Fire Storm that raged around them when she enacted the spell. Quickly he glanced around, searching for her through the dazzling flames. The empty blue bottle of a magicka potion bounced off the outside of his ward, and he turned towards it instinctively, only to have her Shout from the direction he had just turned his back on. _"Zun Haal Viik!"_

Miraak gripped his sword tighter as the force of her Shout nearly forced him to lose it. _"Ven Gar Nos!"_ he Shouted back, seeing her tuck and roll out of the way and using the opportunity to retreat and draw his staff. Aiming it at the ground beneath her feet, he used almost a quarter of the magic within to create a mass of writhing, venomous tentacles that wrapped themselves around her as she cried out in dismay, smothering the flames between them. With so many, there was no way she could escape them. She lurched away from the center, but the mass was too large. Ysmir staggered and fell to her knees. Miraak's hands curled into fists as he resisted the urge of the _dovah _inside to save her, instinct raging against ambition. Flame blossomed around her, momentarily withering the tentacles, and she used the moment of respite to do the last thing he expected.

Ysmir looked straight down, and Shouted. _"Fus Ro Dah!"_

The young woman went sailing upward, where Sahrotaar, still under her will, caught her, landing as golden light arched and danced around the claw he held her with. Miraak glared, feeling oddly betrayed. _"Sahrotaar, zii los dii du!"_

The dragon screamed as his treachery brought the only possible end, and his flesh withered on his bones as his soul went to nourish Miraak. Within the circle of bones, Ysmir shakily got to her feet, flames once again dancing over her form as the soul whipped the air around her like a strong wind. Her clothes were starting to look a bit charred around the edges, elven chainmail glinting through some of the holes. "You'd kill your own ally?" she asked, voice shaking with rage.

"As assuredly as I'd kill yours," he told her grimly, shooting more tentacles at her feet.

_"Wuld!"_ she cried quickly, bringing herself closer to him like an approaching comet. She finally drew the sword that had been sheathed across her back, a thin, slightly curving blade that filled him with a curious foreboding. Suddenly he realized why she'd waited to wield it—it was made for the slaying of dragons. Just carrying it must have rubbed raw against her soul. With a yell she cast herself at him again, the sword dancing in her grip as she Shouted for the fury of the elements to assist her.

Another enchantment fell as she sliced it off his boot. A slow smile crossed her face, and this time he could neither avoid nor dampen her fire when it hit him. He gasped _"Feim Zii Gron,"_ and raced for the center, holding his side where she had burned him. He cursed; he hadn't counted on her being a Master Level fire mage either; most of the battles on Solstheim he had managed to watch suggested she liked to stay out of harm's way, allowing her heavily armed companions to draw the fire as she struck from afar. Now he realized how much she restrained herself to keep those same companions from being caught in her attacks. "_Kruziikrel, zii los dii du!"_ Kruziikrel fell from the sky as his soul was ripped from him, and Miraak sighed as his wounds closed, as his strength returned.

"Quit doing that!" the enraged female shrieked, her sword passing through his ethereal form. To his surprise, it stung quite a bit.

"I will win this fight, Dragonborn," he told her coldly, "I must have your soul to escape this place. Your soul or one other's, and he I cannot touch."

"You think you're the only one who knows what it's like to need to escape? To be trapped somewhere?" she demanded, her eyes blazing so bright her whites were gone. Violet fire flickered over her eyebrows and into her hairline, and Miraak wondered (irrelevantly) if someone had somehow bedded a Flame Atronach somewhere in her ancestry. "You're not!"

Ysmir focused on that, the old fears, the need to escape her childhood home. It was what fueled her fire, made her burn so hot. Tears welled in her eyes and evaporated before they coursed down her cheeks as she spat spiteful vindictive at Miraak. It didn't matter how much of her past she was shouting out at the man; he would very shortly be dead anyway, and she needed the fury the memories brought with them. Damn it all, but she didn't _want_ to kill him! Beat him senseless, oh Divines yes, but the only one who truly needed to die was the Daedric Prince behind everything. None of this would be happening if that unscrupulous floating eyeball hadn't at one point decided to cage a dragon.

But Hermaeus Mora was out of the reach of even a Dragonborn, and Miraak clearly wouldn't stop until he was free, no matter what the cost. Firming her resolve, she summoned all that old fury and directed it at the First Dragonborn, determined, if nothing else, to stop his boundless ambition.

Miraak was solid again.

He leapt backward, bringing his own blade up to block hers, his face behind his mask a rictus of rage. "I'm going to kill all those dammed yellow elves," he growled, and shock froze her long enough for him to catch her blade with his and spiral it away, sending it skittering over the side of the Summit. "How dare they treat a _Dovahkiin_ with anything less than respect? I'll see them _crawl."_

Ysmir jumped out of his reach, taken aback by his response. Shaking her head and recalling herself to the task at hand, she drew her dagger in one hand and summoned a Dremora Lord behind him with the other.

"A challenger is near!" the hulking, red-laced Daedra cried.

Miraak stared for a moment. "Well, they haven't changed," he said, so low Ysmir thought she couldn't have heard him right. Miraak having a sense of humor went counter to her world-view.

"I honor my Lady by destroying you!" the Daedra declared boldly.

Annoyed, Miraak Shouted it off the edge of the platform and watched it fall to its demise. "I hate those things," he muttered, then remembered the girl. Turning proved she was almost on him, her poisoned blade cutting so close it sliced his clothing and left a shallow line of stinging venom across his chest. Gripping the cloth with her other hand, she ripped a good portion of his robes off his shoulders, burning his chest with her fire. The cloth covering his shoulder and right arm turned to ash in an instant, taking a decent amount of his skin with it. He yelled in pain, becoming ethereal once again and sacrificing the last of his dragon thralls. There would be no more chances; he had to kill her quickly.

Ysmir had nearly reached him when he became tangible once more, and his Cyclone hit her just after she managed the first word of Unrelenting Force. It hit Miraak in the side of the head, knocking his mask askew and sending him sprawling out of the black pool. For a few crucial moments, he saw stars.

The Last Dragonborn saw her chance. Racing up, she raised her dagger, skidded to her knees next to Miraak and…stopped.

Half his face displayed strong, finely hewn features, with full lips and high cheekbones. The other half was covered in the green-brown scales of a dragon. A single blond braid partially obscured it, and without thinking she brushed it away to better see the effects of a dragon's soul after countless years. The eyes snapped open and a hand shot up to grasp her wrist. One was blue, the other a dragon's eye, as she had thought. The feeling of his bare skin on her arm sent a surge of sensation through her, similar to and stronger than the euphoria of taking a dragon's soul. For a moment he glared up into her startled face, both of them breathing heavily with exertion and fury, and she couldn't move to save her life.

Then he darted forward and kissed her.

Ysmir had been kissed by more men than she really cared to admit, especially since she had started fighting dragons. Nord men like strong women, so it apparently came with the job. But nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. She felt as if Miraak was trying to devour her soul through the carnal touch of his lips upon hers, and found herself reciprocating with a ferocity that shocked her. Her dagger went skittering away, their clothing torn off in their haste to touch, to taste, to…she wasn't entirely sure what they were trying to do. They might even have been still fighting, trying to dominate one another as they rolled and clashed together, scratched and bit. Then, abruptly, he was on top of her with the most determined expression she had ever seen, and with a single thrust he invaded her. She gasped, nails digging into his arms as they ceased their battle and began to move as one. Ysmir reached up and grasped his hair, pulling his head down until she could reach his lips, wrapping her arms around him as a sensation not unlike stealing a soul filled her mind.

Miraak was lost, and he was pretty sure the woman in his arms was too. Her warmth surrounded him, filled him as he filled her, and he almost hated himself for a moment. But when she kissed him…thought fled and the souls of the only two _Dovahkiinne_ in the world met and soared together.

.

* * *

.

Miraak stooped and lifted his mask from where it had landed, darting a glance at the girl as he fitted it over his face. The sleeves were gone from her mage robes, and she had sliced the hood to use as a wrap to cover her chest. She looked very fetching like that, mostly naked and covered in soot. Her face was as red as her hair as she examined her ruined chainmail, as if wondering how exactly he had managed to rend it apart.

"Um," she halted, glancing at him shyly. That was strange; he hadn't pegged her for shyness. "Have you seen my other boot?"

He could see it, on the other side of the pool from her, obscured from her vision by the rim. A few strides brought him to it, and he tossed it to her wordlessly.

"Thanks," she said, staring at the expressionless mask. Miraak sighed and removed it. The mask was the face of her enemy, the one beneath that of her lover. It was not a position either had found themselves in before. He watched her as she sat on the rim of the pool to pull the boot on. "So…what now?" she finally asked, staring at the ground as she scuffed it with her toe.

Miraak stared at her helplessly, uncertain. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "I could still kill you, but it would leave a bad taste in my mouth." With that comforting statement he sank beside her on the pool's rim, gazing out over Apocrypha. "I will still be trapped here," the look in his eyes just then made her think that the thought was bad enough that he might just get over his hesitation.

"There has to be some other way to get you out!" she said earnestly, and he looked at her in completely dumbfounded amazement at the thought that she would _offer _to help him. "I mean, provided you don't decide to become an evil overlord again, then we'd be right back where we started, only in Nirn, rather than Oblivion." She finally turned to see his expression. "What?"

"Why would you help me?" he asked, wondering if she had cracked her head on the ground earlier.

Her face slowly turned red again, starting with her cheeks and moving outward. "Good question," she replied, glancing away. "But…it's not fair that you're stuck here."

A small smile, the first she had seen, curved his lips. "I will leave someday, Dragonborn, rest assured," he said, his usual arrogance returning.

She shook her head, a small smile playing across her features, "Call me Ysmir."

The slight splash was all the warning they had. A huge tentacle burst out of the pool behind them and impaled Miraak through the chest, lifting the stunned man high above the platform. Ysmir screamed and scuttled backward hastily, gazing up in horror.

"Did you think to escape me, Miraak? You can hide nothing from me here. No matter. I have found a new Dragonborn to serve me," Hermaeus Mora declared, hovering as a grotesque mass of eyes and tentacles above them.

"No!" Ysmir shrieked, frantically throwing a healing spell at the First Dragonborn. A second tentacle rose from the pool and knocked her aside.

Miraak tasted blood. Spitting it out, he drew a shallow breath and murmured something too faint for Ysmir to hear over the ringing in her ears. He began to glow as his clothing incinerated. Tears blurred before her eyes and Apocrypha lurched around them, sloshing the liquid and knocking her over. Abruptly, the tentacle seemed to dissolve and Miraak dropped, naked, his skin gone in some places as he fought the incineration. He grasped the wound in his chest and Spoke.

The world quaked again, and Ysmir fell out of Apocrypha with a scream.

**.**

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**Eee! I was so nervous about posting this chapter. I hope you will all tell me what you think (like any writer, I live off feedback), and especially what you liked or didn't like. Oh, also, do let me know if there is a character you would like to have mentioned or interacted with. Special thanks to A. D. Spinner , CreationUnleashed, and springkerl for reviewing!**


	4. Chapter 4: Knowledge and Fate

Miraak rose, setting aside whatever it was he had been writing. The mask was as expressionless as ever, and she wondered why he wore it when he was alone. "I love what you've done with the place," she said, going for nonchalance as she leaned against the inside of the door. The eyes narrowed behind the mask and a single hand waved, once. The door shut, shoving her into the room.

He was very close within a matter of seconds. Ysmir's heart started to pound, and not just because she wondered if he had made up his mind about killing her. For a long moment he just stared down at her, eyes glinting in the darkness of his mask. She wondered what he would do if she reached up and removed it. Perhaps it was best not to find out, but of course she did it anyway, because sense apparently flew out the window with Miraak.

His face was just as she remembered it, expressionless but for a slight crease between his brows and the fury of thoughts whirling behind his eyes. Finally, he voiced one. "Why are you here? I all but told you I would kill you if you returned, and I have had six more years in Apocrypha to motivate me."

Ysmir watched his lips as he spoke. Damn the man anyway: What did a man need with such perfect lips? "I needed to come here even if it were Hermaeus Mora who was still in charge," she told him, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. "I thought he might not be."

A corner of the lips quirked up, sardonically, it seemed to her. "And why would you think that?"

"Your last words. I finally sorted them out: _'Zii los dii du, Hermaeus Mora.' _His was the other soul that could fuel your return. You made a point of saying that the other soul could not be touched, but when he stabbed you…" she trailed off, eyes darkening as the image of him suspended in the air flashed through her mind. She shouldn't care, she knew she shouldn't, but it still affected her. She'd thought of him, of that moment, more than she dared to recall.

"And yet I am still here," he pointed out, lifting one arm to indicate the shifting walls of the Oblivion Realm of Knowledge.

She smiled, "A while back I met Sheogorath. Do you know what he told me? He told me he was my ancestor. Gave me a long story to go with it, and a lot of cheese. I thought it was just madness, but then I started looking into it. It might be madness, but there is a good chance that it's true." She gazed back up into his eyes, which still whirled. "I thought that if one mortal can become a Daedric Prince, why not two? It's not as if you didn't have experience running Apocrypha already."

"Clever," he breathed, leaning closer, "So very clever…"

His lips touched hers with all the thrill she remembered, and before she could stop herself she molded against him as she had done so many times in dreams she wouldn't admit to having. For one seemingly eternal moment they were together again, with all the passions and pitfalls that entailed, then one of Sofie's pins dug into her breast and she gasped, jumping back. "Right. Job to do," she said, pulling out the pin with a wince. Part of the hem unfolded where it hadn't been completely mended, but for once she was grateful to her adopted daughter's forgetfulness.

Miraak looked as breathless as she felt. "What brought you back to Apocrypha?" he asked, for he knew the answer would never be him, not after she left him for dead for six years.

Ysmir pursed her lips in thought, not knowing how much she wanted to reveal. Buying a few moments by folding the pin in a spare handkerchief and stowing it in her belt pouch, she decided the direct approach would probably be best. "Miraak, in all your reading, did you ever think that I might not be the Last Dragonborn?"

He scoffed, straightening clothes she didn't remember tugging at and going back to his desk. "Ridiculous. Why would you even ask?"

"I…Let's suppose I met someone who could Shout…"

"The Greybeards can Shout. No one ever accused them of being Dragonborn," he retorted, sounding scornful.

"This person picked up the Shout after hearing it once, just like I did Dragonrend," she said, shifting uncomfortably as she pressed her thighs together, then stopping when she realized what she was doing.

Miraak realized it too, and the lavishious smile that spread across his features had the dual effect of making her want go sit in his lap and purr like a Khajiit, or whack him over the head with the Wabbajack before turning him into a mudcrab. She scowled, "Well? I'm pretty sure this person is Dragonborn."

"It is still impossible," the new Daedric Prince of Knowledge assured her, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. "You probably just met a particularly talented Tongue. All Tongues can learn to use the Voice, albeit crudely and after years of study. Even your Ulfric Stormcloak managed to figure it out." His dismissive tone showed exactly what he thought of that.

Ysmir snorted, "Ulfric is not 'my' anything," she muttered. "He's just a pawn in the Thalmor's game to weaken the Empire."

"And wouldn't it be interesting to watch him discover _that_?" Miraak enthused. Ysmir had the shrewd notion that Ulfric _would _be finding out that little fact, probably publically and at a very sensitive moment. "Anyway, I would not be too quick to assume this person is Dragonborn. Even if they are, all you need to do to remain the Last Dragonborn is outlive them."

"I'm…older," she admitted.

Miraak shrugged, "So ensure it. Kill them."

Ysmir froze. Of course Miraak would suggest that. "I can't."

A cold smile crossed the handsome, transformed face, "I can. Where is this person?" At her stubborn look, the flames that flickered momentarily over hands curled into fists, he knew he had gotten to her. "I can go looking if you won't tell me. I discover everything, eventually, and I have all of Hermaeus Mora's followers as well as my cultists just waiting for an order…"

"Miraak, if you touch her, I'll make you wish that tentacle had killed you," she promised.

The infuriating smile widened. "Oh, a _her _is it? That narrows down the search by half—"

"It's our daughter!" Ysmir burst out, all unwilling.

The smile vanished as Miraak sat up, the chair thumping to the floor. "What?"

"The newest Dragonborn is our daughter," she repeated, not able to look at him. Somehow, she felt guilty having kept this from him, when she had been able to return at any time to see if he had survived. But what kind of life would that have been for Darva? She would cheerfully slaughter everyone in Skyrim if it meant keeping her little girl out of Apocrypha.

"That's not possible," he said flatly, and she jerked her gaze back to his face, which had gone cold as granite. He might as well have been wearing his mask.

"That's what I said, for about two months. Then it started to show…I supposed Apocrypha, or the fight, damaged some of the enchantments I had keeping me from getting pregnant. That" she added dryly, "or it's your _dovah_ virility coming through."

"No," he said, shaking his head so hard his braid went flying around like a whip. "It cannot be."

Ysmir put her hands on her hips. "It's true. She has your hair, your cheekbones, and she thinks she's never wrong."

Miraak shook out of his mental paralysis long enough to give her an ironic look, which she ignored.

"Besides," she added, pursing her lips slightly, "I was in and out of Apocrypha so much that I didn't…dally as much as I could have. And the one other man I slept with was not a blond Nord."

Miraak seemed a bit disgusted. "You slept with an elf, didn't you?"

"I'm part elf, egomaniac," she shot back, then spread her arms wide, "Product of the united Empire, right here!" Although, if one wanted to be truly honest, she was the product of Altmeri depravity…

The First Dragonborn shook his head, returning to his thoughts. She let him, going over to see what books were on his shelf, although given the four or five that flew off the shelves and into the stacks of the wall, they were not personal choices.

"What's her name?" he finally asked. She turned to gaze down at him, unsure, and he scowled, "I have a right to know."

"Darva," she supplied.

The scowl only deepened, "You named her after an insect?"

Ysmir scowled right back. "I didn't know what to name her for a long time. I didn't even keep my own name, for Talos's sake!" Not that it really was a name so much as a title.

"So what, she got stung and you decided it was fate?" he asked scathingly.

"She wouldn't eat," Ysmir admitted, not letting the myriad hopeless feelings, of the horrible thought that she had failed as a mother somehow before she even began, crowd in to flavor her tone. "A friend suggested we add honey to the milk. It worked."

Miraak didn't reply, his mind echoing with a faint, ancient memory of his own mother telling him how he had done much the same thing. The scowl was back. "What Shout?" he asked instead of voicing his thoughts.

Again she hesitated, and he glared at her, "Bend Will," she finally admitted.

She was alarmed when he actually smiled, "Really? She takes after me, then?"

"Do not get too excited. There is no way I would ever bring her here," Ysmir said, flames lifting her hair from her shoulders.

"I would not expect you to," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. He suppressed it swiftly. "Who did she use it on? You?" That would be amusing.

"Her brother," the Dovahkiin replied.

Miraak's stomach tightened uncomfortably, "You have another child?"

"Adoptive brother," she corrected him. "I have seven of them, altogether."

He laughed incredulously, "How do you manage?"

"Very well, thank you," she replied stiffly. Of course, she had help in the form of Lydia and Inigo, and the twins were around much of the time. "Miraak, I don't think you're seeing what the problem is," she began, but he interrupted her.

"The problem? Besides discovering I've had a daughter for almost six years?" he asked acidly, rising to come stand before her menacingly. "What would you have me think about, after discovering this?"

Ysmir swallowed, trying not to be obvious about it, and pressed herself back against the bookcase. Too close; he was far too close. Her fight or flight response kicked in and began to argue with the parts of her that wanted nothing more than for him to fill that five-inch gap between them. "If I'm the Last Dragonborn, what does that mean for our daughter?"

His eyes softened slightly as he thought. "I see your point. I'll look into it, and set the Seekers to it as well. If there is an answer to be found here, we will find it."

She felt the incredible burden of worry ease so much she sagged, finding herself near tears. "Thank you," she breathed, and an expression of sympathy crossed his features while her eyes were closed.

"Now," he said, because he could not just let her go, "You've been gone for the better part of a decade, Dragonborn."

Pure annoyance filled her expression as she looked up at him, "It was a risk coming to Apocrypha at all! I only suspected that you were alive, and if you were there was still a better than even chance that you'd want to kill me."

"I don't want to kill you. I might, but it's not what I want," he replied, and at her questioning look, smiled wickedly. "Here," he murmured, moving closer, "Let me show you what I want…"

.

* * *

.

Ysmir woke in her bed in Severin Manor no longer sitting up, but laid out neatly on the bed, the Book laying open on her chest, with no tentacles in sight, thank the Divines. Aela was seated cross-legged on a chair a few feet away, head on her hand and a wistful look on her face. "I don't know who you visited in that Book, but I wish you had shared," was the first thing she said.

She blushed, sitting up gingerly. "I wasn't expecting…" In all honesty, she had suspected her theory of Miraak's survival was wishful thinking, and that she would have to bargain with the Wretched Abyss to get what she wanted. Now she wasn't sure what to think, especially after... One thing was for certain, and that was that her life had just gotten much more complicated.

"So who is he? I should warn you that the twins will be jealous," she warned her unnecessarily. "They don't mind sharing their women with each other, and sometimes with other friends, but they have a thing about men they haven't met. Especially ones you have to arrange a meeting with in Oblivion," The Huntress stretched her long legs out before her, toying with the dagger she carried. Her bow was beside her on the chest, arrows beside it, ready to defend in case of intruders.

The Dragonborn sighed. There was no point in keeping this from Aela; she was intelligent, and would figure it out on her own. Worse, she would share what she surmised. "Honey-bee's father."

Aela started so badly she cut herself, "Wait, he's in Apocrypha? What is he, some sort of mage?"

"It's Miraak," Ysmir confessed, stretching out her arms so that her joints popped.

"The man who sent cultists after you?" she exploded. The dagger flew out of her hand and impaled itself in the chest of the mannequin wearing cultist's garb.

"The only cultists who come after me now are the ones in Skyrim with old orders. He's sort of left them to their own devices since he…well," there was no easy way to say this, "absorbed Hermaeus Mora and became a Daedric Prince."

She had never seen Aela do so credible an imitation of a salmon, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. "But…Apocrypha? I saw you, here, while your mind was there. You were _not_ _physically there_. How?"

She shrugged, "The last time I was there I went in my full power; body and mind. Miraak wouldn't get anything out of killing me, otherwise. Then…well, he couldn't." It would be more accurate to say that he decided he didn't want to, but Ysmir did not want to share that. "Is it strange that I sometimes missed him? I was used to seeing him, the omnipresent enemy that became…I'm not entirely sure what he became. There's a…pull between us: a bond of two of a kind, stronger than what I feel to dragons, even when I have to slay them and absorb their souls. I really don't know what to think of him anymore, other than I do not think I could bring myself to kill him, now. We're certainly not friends, and I'm not sure love comes into it either, but neither sees the other as an enemy."

"So you're letting a mass of Book-born tentacles rip your mind from your body to have hate sex with an ancient man that just became a Daedric Prince?" Aela summed up incredulously.

"It's far more complicated than that. He rules Apocrypha now, and that is one of the few places that might have answers about Honey-bee. And he looks anything but ancient," Ysmir hastened to assure her, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and heading down the hall, resolutely ignoring the way her knees wanted to give out. Rather than being stiff from sitting with the Black Book for so long, her entire body practically throbbed in a way that bordered on obscene. Stupid Morrowind architecture placed the kitchen upstairs, and damn, she needed a drink. She wiped her palms on her thighs as she walked, hoping Aela didn't notice how sweaty they were, or that she attributed it to going to Apocrypha rather than what had occurred while she was there. She'd had no idea that seeing Miraak again would affect her so strongly. Hadn't really let herself think about it too much at all, really, other than that she needed answers, and Apocrypha might well be the only place to find them.

"Comforting. At least you know Dragonborn age well. You never see a rendering of Tiber Septim as anything other than grand," Aela joked acidly, letting Ysmir know that there was a lot going left unsaid. Aela only joked like this when she was unsure of the reception of what she wanted to say. Well, that made two of them, and Ysmir was already regretting broaching the subject of Miraak. She'd have to sort her feelings out on her own, she guessed. That was best done away from him, where her judgement wouldn't be clouded by…whatever was between them.

"Apparently we age dragon," Ysmir replied, grabbing a loaf of bread, sticking a hunk of cheese on it and taking a bite. "Half his face is taking on a dragon aspect."

Aela finally came to a decision. "I don't think you ought to talk to him again. I think you should stay away from those Books."

"I have. I would have left them in there for eternity were it not for Darva suddenly taking after, well, both of us. The fact that she used the Bend Will Shout first worries me," she admitted, taking a long drink of sujamma right from the bottle. "I would have felt a lot better if it had been something like Animal Allegiance. There's so much temptation attached to that Shout, and I'm not sure a five-year-old would bother to fight it."

Aela patted her hand comfortingly, her face full of sympathy. "We'll just have to teach her that she needs to. She's a good girl; perhaps if you teach her some of the other Shouts she'll forget about this one."

"I doubt it, but I suppose she'll have to learn sometime. I want to wait until she's a little older, though. I'd hate doing it, but if worse comes to worse I can use Bend Will on her to make her forget she ever heard the Shout."

The Huntress grimaced with the same distaste Ysmir felt, but what was one memory of a child compared to the hundreds she might subvert if she followed in her father's footsteps? The women sat in silence for a long while, each pondering just this thought. It was Aela that finally broke the quiet. "It's almost midnight. I'll pack some travel kits and we can set out to visit the Frostmoon Pack in the morning."

"They weren't too friendly last time I met them," Ysmir warned.

Aela bent and kissed the top of her head. "That, my dear, is because you are a dragon, not a wolf."

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**Hello, everybody! I updated a bit early today, because I'm having issues with my computer. Just a bit of a heads up in case I don't post on time next week. In other news, I have Darva and Ysmir drawn up, so I should have pictures of them up on my Deviantart in the next few weeks.**

**A. D. Spinner: I beg forgiveness for having two cliffies in a row! I don't actually write in chapters, I partition things off afterwards by section and word count.**

**CreationUnleashed: I'm afraid that wasn't my idea, but the artist that created the version of Miraak that I used. Check it out if you haven't yet! Miraak the Dragonborn by Jowain92 on Deviantart. I would just put a link, but they get all garbled in the editor. It's the first thing that comes up when you Google it, though.**

**Anyway, please let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5: School Reunion

Their journey from Solstheim was much different from their voyage there. This time they took the _Northern Maiden_ from Raven Rock to Windhelm, and Ysmir and Aela discovered, much to their dismay, that The Huntress and boats did not mix well. Ysmir spent most of the voyage below decks with Aela, working on a Restoration spell that negated motion sickness, with some success. When they finally entered the river that would lead them to the docks at Windhelm, however, Aela opted to jump off the ship and swim to land rather than remain aboard a few more hours. Ysmir had brought some water-sensitive material back, and told her she'd meet her at the Windhelm stables.

The Nord woman was looking much more like her usual self when Ysmir finally caught up with her, after hiring a courier to tell Lydia that she was back in Skyrim, and would be heading to the College of Winterhold before going south. Aela groaned to learn they were going to consort with a group of mages, but cheered up considerably when she learned that she probably wouldn't be allowed inside the walls of the College, and should just remain in the inn, where she could get a few bounties from the innkeeper to work off her boredom and earn money for the Companions.

The journey from Windhelm to Winterhold was fairly uneventful, save for some mudcrabs, some trolls, a couple of frostbite spiders, and the ever-present bandits. Oh, and a few necromancers and some vampires impersonating Vigilants of Stendarr. Uneventful for her, she supposed. No dragons attacked, anyway. At least they were spared being hounded by wolves, as the creatures left Aela alone the moment they smelled her.

"Isn't this wonderful, Ysmir?" Aela enthused. "The fresh air, the bracing Skyrim breeze, the blue sky above us and the glory of the hunt!"

"Yes, delightful," Ysmir replied, flicking her hands to try to fling some of the spider goop off her arms. She never should have introduced The Huntress to exploding arrows.

Winterhold looked as wretched as it always did, Ysmir reflected scornfully. In her opinion, the hold held too dearly to the past, bemoaning the Great Collapse and blaming the College for all their woes rather than rebuilding their hold. They could be great again, if they cared to even try to repair the damaged houses and bring in more citizens. She knew how she would do it; there were plenty of farmers and other honest citizens homeless from dragon attacks and the war. Enough to swell Winterhold to at least half its former size. Instead, they wailed against the mages and let their city rot around them. Pitiful.

Aela stopped to examine the College, hands on her hips and head tilted to the side. Ysmir didn't see how she wasn't freezing in her ancient Nordic armor, for the wind whipped their hair around their shoulders and drove snow into every inch of clothing. "Impressive," The Huntress finally said, "I'll see you in four days," she added, heading into the inn.

Ysmir sighed, facing the College and straightening her shoulders. Plenty of others had attained their Mastery and left, as she had, but she was still uncertain of her welcome, as she had left without a word after a rather embarrassing incident.

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* * *

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_Nine years ago…_

A knock on the door startled her, and she yelled for Lydia to answer it. She was almost finished with this potion…

"My Thane?" Lydia poked her head in the Alchemy Lab, face uncertain, "There are a couple of men here to see you."

"What's wrong with them?" Ysmir asked absently, in response to the housecarl's confliction.

"They asked if this was a school for mages," she replied, and Ysmir laughed at the thought. "I'll be down in a moment," she said, waiting for the final drops to drip out of the alembic. "Give them some mead in the meantime."

Some minutes later, she entered the main hall, wiping her hands on a rag, only to stop in surprise when she saw who awaited her: J'zargo and Onmund, looking extraordinarily miserable. "What in the name of Julianos are you two doing here?" she burst out, unable to fathom what had brought them to her home in Falkreath, on the other end of Skyrim.

The two Apprentices glanced at each other, and finally Onmund came forward. "We…we know why you left the College," he said in a rush.

Ysmir lifted an eyebrow, "Do you now?"

"Yes, and we wanted you to know that it's our fault. Ancano…he was being such a…well, you know. So when one of Brelyna's attempts at Alchemy made something that was like an extremely potent wine, we slipped it to him. Whatever he did or said to you, it was because he was so drunk he was out of his mind. He doesn't even remember what he did."

She stared at them for a moment before bursting out laughing. "Is _that_ why that moron kissed me? I thought he was drunk, but I really couldn't picture him letting himself get to that state."

The poor Nord boy paled in dismay; "He _kissed_ you?"

Ysmir snorted. "He did a lot more than that—he called me an Altmer name and put on an Amulet of Mara. The only reason he isn't dead now is because I didn't want the Thalmor to blame the Arch Mage." Actually, he had called her by the family name of her Thalmor grandfather, having apparently found traces of that family in her features, in her magic. She had almost killed him in fright that he would contact The Bastard and have her sent home again. Only the realization that he had just, in his drunken state, gotten over his prejudice enough to make the connection had stayed her hand. That was why she had left the College; fear that he would remember, or make the connection again. Her grandfather's family was an important one—she was never even able to comprehend how important until she left. Even marriage to a mixed-raced bastard of that family would bring connections any of the Dominion would find advantageous.

"J'zargo would not mind taking the blame, this once," the Khajiit growled, much to her surprise.

She smiled at him fondly, "I appreciate the offer, J'zargo, but that's not the only reason I left the College. Surely you noticed that my old room is empty? I attained my Mastery, and they moved me to the Hall of Countenance. Also…" she trailed off, wondering what all to tell them. "I have…a destiny I have to fulfill."

"What do you mean?" Onmund asked, perplexed and worried.

"It's not something I want the rest of the College to know, for various reasons," she said, heading outside. "You know I only came to Skyrim a year ago, but it's been a rather hectic year. You see, I found out that I'm…not quite as ordinary as I thought."

"I never thought you were ordinary," the Nord burst out, and Ysmir decided his little crush on her was getting too strong—another reason not to go back.

"I thought you were," J'zargo admitted. "You were not competitive at all."

Ysmir laughed. "J'zargo, you are about to get jealous," she teased, turned toward a pile of hay she had stacked up as being too rotten for thatch, and Shouted _"Yol Toor Shul!"_ Predictably, the pile went up with an impressive explosion of flame; Ysmir was rather proud of herself, for Paarthurnax had only just taught her the final word of that Shout.

The wide eyes of the two Apprentices were all she could have wished. "So, you see, I'm going to be a little too busy for school."

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* * *

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She had expected to meet Faralda at the gate, and she wasn't disappointed. "Cross the bridge at your own peril! The way is dangerous and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

"You're still toting that line?" Ysmir asked with a smile, throwing her hood back.

The Altmer—one of the few of that race that Ysmir did not actively dislike—blinked in surprise. "So you return to us, Noyoki," she replied.

Ysmir shook her head. "I no longer go by that name, Faralda. I have found one of my own."

The elven woman smiled slightly; she was among the few that knew "Noyoki" was what an Altmer put on a form to hold the place of a name when one could not be found. There were many elven gravestones with the term "Noyoki" emblazoned upon them. Ysmir had told Faralda—and, eventually, Ancano, who's attention had been pricked at the familiar, if somewhat morbid, Aldmeri word—that it was the name given to her by the Thalmor woman that had run the orphanage she had grown in. She had stuck to that lie ever since, as it seemed to work fairly well.

The woman stepped aside and let the Dragonborn enter. The walkway was as perilous as Ysmir remembered, and she wondered absently if the Arch Mage left it like that on purpose to weed out the cowardly before they even entered the College proper.

"What name have you chosen for yourself, then?" the mage asked, falling slightly behind her as they traversed the most crumbled part of the walkway.

"Ysmir," she replied with a smile, looking back as they stepped upon a more stable section.

Faralda looked nonplussed. "That is a strange title to take for yourself, especially surrounded by Nords who might take offense."

"I did not take it for myself; I was finally adopted," she replied with a laugh. "It took me seventeen years, but I finally gained a family and a name."

"Perhaps it is appropriate, given your talent with fire," the older woman finally said, with a small smile.

"They certainly thought so," Ysmir replied, "Although that is not the reason they Named me thus. So what has happened since I have been away?"

The Altmer sighed as the conversation went back to what was, for her, solid footing. "We finally found a way to bring the Artifact from Sarthaal to the Collage safely, although not everyone is happy with that. We have been studying it, and come up with very little information, despite the seven years we have been searching. Urag says it is the Eye of Magnus, but other than that we know almost nothing about it."

"And Ancano? He seemed fairly interested in it; surely he has written to his colleagues and gotten something to share." Really, she doubted the Thalmor agent would share anything he knew unless under duress, but what she truly wanted to know was if he was still at the college.

Evidently Faralda shared that opinion. "That man wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire," she said scornfully.

"He might, if you were already a corpse. Just out of spite, mind," Ysmir said. "Does he remember what happened the night I left? He seemed fairly inebriated at the time."

Faralda looked worried, "What with everything else that was going on, I wasn't sure that was when you left. He didn't threaten you, did he? I know he has never seen your entry into the College as anything other than the Arch Mage's incompetence, despite your obvious talent for magery."

"No, he didn't threaten me," she assured the other woman flatly.

"You have been gone a long time," Faralda said after an uncomfortable silence in which the pair halted awkwardly at the end of the walkway. "What kept you away so long?"

"I meant to come back," Ysmir replied honestly, "If only to visit. Just…life happened. And—no offense—the College isn't the kind of place I want to bring any young child. I'd be afraid they'd manage to blow themselves up or fall over a railing."

"Oh! You didn't tell me that you got married!" Faralda exclaimed happily. Apparently marriage was a perfectly acceptable excuse for not coming to visit for nine years.

"I never married," Ysmir objected hastily, waving her hands slightly as if to ward off the thought.

The elf looked thrown for a moment, then outraged, "If that man forced himself upon you—"

"No! No, nothing like that!" Ysmir cried, eyes wide. It had never even occurred to her that Faralda would assume that Ancano had raped her. "I adopted several children over the years. It seemed I couldn't go anywhere without kicking up an orphan!"

"And you being an orphan yourself…yes, I could see why you would begin collecting them. I still remember that litter of kittens you snuck into the Hall of Attainment," the older mage reminisced, eyes dancing.

"And how they would follow J'zargo around!" Ysmir laughed. "Are they still here?"

Faralda nodded. "I have one, the Arch Mage kept another, and Tolfdir took the third, but they still follow J'zargo around when he visits."

She laughed again, then shivered as a gust of cold air snuck under her cloak and slithered down her spine like an ice drake. "Well, no more putting this off, I suppose. Thank you, Faralda, for welcoming me back."

"Plenty have gone into the world after finishing their education," the elf assured her warmly, putting a hand on her arm, "We only wondered that you left without saying goodbye."

"I hate goodbyes," Ysmir said honestly. "Back then, I assumed everyone else felt the same."

With that, she turned and began walking into the courtyard. Faralda didn't follow, so she assumed the woman was returning to her post. Mirabelle glanced up at her, then down to the book she was reading before doing a double-take. Ysmir smiled and waved, and the Master Wizard closed the book and approached. Before she reached her, however, Ancano walked out of the Hall of Elements and nearly ran her over. He scowled when he saw her and opened his mouth to speak, but Ysmir silenced him how she had always longed to; she punched him in the jaw so hard he spun, slipped on the ice, and landed on his knees.

"That's for what you did the night I left, you pervert!" she declared, stepping around him like she couldn't bear his presence (which really, was fairly close to the truth), and left him and Mirabelle wondering just what he had done the night he couldn't remember. Now, she hoped, he would actively avoid her during the rest of her stay. And everyone else was sure to remember and wonder about a night he would rather pretend never happened.

Her smugness was short-lived, for when she entered the Hall of Elements she was struck dumb by the giant, glowing sphere rotating above the middle well of the room. It spun lazily, emitting a strange, unsettling humming noise, the sigils engraved along the black bands writhing slightly. Faintly, she heard someone lecturing, and ducked into The Arcanaeum before anyone noticed her. Climbing the stairs carefully, in case someone was about to turn the corner with their nose in a book instead of paying attention to where they were going, she emerged into the library with a feeling of contentment for the sight and smell of all those books. Once, she had briefly entertained the idea of succeeding Urag as Librarian, but had quickly abandoned that notion when she realized just how bored she would be.

An image of Miraak, alone for millennia amongst the stacks of Apocrypha, entered her mind unwillingly, and she forced it away with a violent toss of her head. The movement—and undoubtedly, the flash of red—caught the orc's attention, and a moment passed before he called, "Didn't think I would see you again. Rule still stands; you damage any of these books, and I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs."

She laughed, "Why Urag, I'm touched! I didn't know you missed your book fetcher so much!"

"I've had four or five different book fetchers since you left, and three of them actually came back!" he countered, actually coming out from behind his counter to greet her. "What's this?" he asked, nodding to the bag she held.

"I was just at Raven Rock, and it occurred to me that you might not have all these," she replied, handing him the bag of books, both common and rare, that she had brought from Severin Manor.

"Hmm," he said meditatively, going back to his accustomed place to sort through the volumes. Needless to say, there were no Black Books in there, but Ysmir had a way of stumbling across uncommon writings, including ancient journals, and she could never help but pick them up. Perhaps that was what had grabbed the attention of Mora in the first place.

"So, Urag, I need to do some research on the prophesies of the Last Dragonborn. Not the new stuff, mind, the really old writings I couldn't find elsewhere."

He looked up, eyes narrowed, "Was this a sort of bribe?" he asked gesturing to the books.

She rolled her eyes, "You've let me read rare books before, Urag. I don't intend to take any of them out of The Arcanaeum. If I want the knowledge elsewhere, I'll make notes, as always."

"See that you don't spill any ink on them, then" he replied, walking over to a case and simply opening it for her to see, pointing to a section in the middle, just above eye height. "This entire shelf is nothing but writings on the prophesy of Alduin's return. Some of it is drivel, some of it not. There are one or two new books that should interest you, too. Especially this one," he said, taking one down and handing it to her, "written by a man called Esbern, one of the last of the Blades. He personally met the Dragonborn. Describes her as a young woman with red hair and purple eyes."

She gazed at him soberly. "Who else knows? I don't want to be studied or stared at, Urag. That's the reason I never mentioned it when I was here. Well, that and I didn't quite believe it myself, yet."

"I didn't tell anyone, but I'm not the only person who read that book, Noyo—no, you go by Ysmir now. Ysmir, the Dragon of the North," he snorted a little.

"The Greybeards Named me," she replied with a shrug.

"What you call yourself is irrelevant; Dragonborn or not, take care of these books or I'll have your hide to re-cover them."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Yes sir."

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**As always, I hope you guys like this chapter.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6: The Augur of Dunlain

It seemed this was only the first of the books Esbern was planning on writing about the prophesies and how they were fulfilled. He had not yet begun to write on her experiences, only what was written on Alduin's wall, and what texts survived from that time. She had translated a few Word Walls for him, ones that had something interesting to say (to him, anyway) and he drew some rather interesting conclusions from them. Unfortunately, he had only finished one book so far; she would still need to speak with him. Not that she minded Esbern. Actually, she was rather fond of the old geezer, and he (ironically) reminded her a lot of Paarthurnax. It was Delphine she couldn't stand.

The door to The Arcanaeum opened, and Ysmir tensed without meaning to, looking up to see Brelyna standing uncertainly in the stone arch that marked the entrance. Ysmir gave her a warm smile. "Brelyna! It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed, putting the book aside to go give the Dunmer a welcoming hug, which the young woman returned hesitantly.

"I wasn't sure you were really back," the woman replied. Ysmir was glad to see that the elf had started to wear her hair down, rather in that quite unflattering pair of buns she used to.

"Just visiting, I'm afraid," Ysmir revealed, and felt guilty when the Dunmer's shoulders drooped. "I see you've attained your Mastery," she noted, causing the young elf's head to rise in pride.

"Yes," she said, looking down at her robes and tugging a bit on the hem of the hood. "I decided to focus on Alteration, although I have recently started to study Conjuration with more enthusiasm."

"You're not going to turn me into a cow again, are you?" Ysmir teased, leading the elf back to the chair nearest the one she had taken. She had to move a stack of books before they sat, and cast around a moment before finding a cushion that was unused or not worn flat from being a book prop.

"Oh, no!" Brelyna laughed, relaxing, and began to fill Ysmir in on what she had been doing. To Ysmir's slight consternation, there was much of spell craft and little personal, other than a brief fling with Onmund. That affair had ended when he attained Mastery and was invited to be personal wizard to a rich man in his home town.

"What about the new apprentices? Surely you've made some new friends?" she persisted, but it seemed that the shy girl had holed herself up in her studies.

No wonder she was so glad to see Ysmir.

The Dragonborn went to her temporary bed in the Hall of Countenance that night feeling frustrated and guilty. By all accounts, she should be the Last Dragonborn. Every part of the prophesy said "last," not "second to last," or "one of the last." She had poured through all the books The Arcanaeum had on the subject and had a great sheaf of notes, but so far there was nothing to help her discover the fate of her daughter.

Also plaguing her was her shy friend's loneliness. She already longed to be away from here and heading home to her family, but she felt she must do _something_ about Brelyna before she left. She turned over, snuggling her face into the pillow and missing the twin's warmth, frowning at the wall beyond the darkness.

Footsteps outside the doorless alcove made her freeze, deliberately relaxing her body and making her breathing even and slow. Faintly seen through her eyelashes, a figure paused outside, silhouetted by the mage fire in the central well. Whoever it was seemed to consider her a moment, then move on, probably deciding to talk to her in the morning rather than wake her.

Ysmir let her eyes shut fully. She still had much to do, and really should be sleeping. Unfortunately, she was remembering why she had spent so many nights away from the College while she lived there, despite the warm bed and having a roof over her head. The air in the Halls felt so close, and the rooms were so quiet. When the lights were turned low, it felt like a much smaller space. She rolled onto her back, spreading her limbs wide to assure herself that there were no confining walls in touching distance, closing in and trapping her. So assured, she forced herself to relax, concentrating on each set of muscles individually until some of the tension left. Long before she was finished, she was asleep.

* * *

Tolfdir came to get her the next morning, and she got the new pleasure of talking to her old mentor as an equal as they ate breakfast in a little alcove in the Hall of Countenance. He queried her on what she had meant by calling Ancano a pervert, but she pressed her lips together tightly and refused to speak on it, which she hoped would drive the snobbish elf mad. She did, however, assure the elderly man that she took no harm from the Thalmor. This particular one, at any rate.

After breakfast, it was time to make a visit to the Midden.

The Midden was a dank, cold maze of crumbling brickwork and cobwebs, held together by ice and ancient mortar, filled with ice wraiths and draugr. Ysmir had always hated coming down here, although she had done so often to speak with someone peculiar, even by her standards.

"You come again." The disembodied voice echoed through the cold stone hall, making the icicles shiver.

"Why do you always start talking before I've even reached you?" Ysmir complained, pulling a cobweb from her hair. Apparently, judging from the number of frostbite spiders she'd had to kill, no one had been down her since her last visit.

Somehow, he heard her. "I know of your coming. I know much that is to come, with no hope of changing it. To know such things is to despair."

"Same old bundle of optimism, aren't you?" she finally reached his door, walking in to confront one of the College's greatest secrets; the Augur of Dunlain. He had no body, anymore, but took the form of a transparent orb of energy with shafts of white-blue light delineating the boundaries, within which tiny sparks twirled and twinkled in a double-helix. For some reason, the members of the Collage hated talking about him, but she found the melancholy spirit good company, when not steeped in despondency.

"You have done much since you last came to see me, Dragonborn," he replied, a note of respect in his voice.

"Friends call me Ysmir, Augie," she replied with a grin, covering the stone stool she had brought there so long ago with fire until it was warm to the touch and she could sit on it without freezing.

"Ysmir. You come seeking advice on your daughter, but I have none to give. The future is uncertain, my friend, and has been since you last returned from Apocrypha six years ago. Your fate was to lose to the First Dragonborn, or he to lose to you. It was not intended that you join, although I wondered if you might."

She sat up like he had stuck her with a pin, "What do you mean, you wondered?"

"You are ruled by your passions, Dovahkiin, as is the Dragon Priest, as are all dragons. You are the only female of your kind remaining, and he the only male of your kind that you would meet. The draw between those suspected to be _dovahkiin_ was once a well-known secret, of which stories were whispered but never written. Like the werewolves you have taken into your life, the bonds between those of your kind are strong. The Companions could not sit back and watch the Silver Hand slaughter their brother and sister wolves, even if the Hand had left them alone."

Ysmir scowled, thinking uncomfortably about her draw to the First Dragonborn, "Didn't stop him from trying to steal my soul for his escape," she pointed out bitterly.

"If he had killed you, Ysmir, Miraak would have destroyed himself past redemption, and lost a part of himself forever. And you, had you been victorious, would have withered, unable to bear what you had done. The Daedra would have taken you, and you would have walked forever amongst the tomes of Apocrypha, a shade of yourself."

Ysmir shuddered violently. "But what of Darva? Do you see her facing Alduin? Will the World Eater return?"

"I do not see Darva at all."

The sentence caught her breath in her throat and stilled her. He didn't see Darva? The Augur must have sensed her distress, for he added, "I do not see her future. I can see her past, the life she has already lived, and I can see her now, being held in Farkas's arms as she cries over a skinned knee. I have watched her off and on for all her life, Ysmir. She is fascinating; a life I cannot see until it unfolds. Rest assured that I would find a way to contact you if that ever were to change."

"Thank you," she said gratefully, rising. She never was able to stay down here too long; it was far too cold. She had already instinctively invoked her flame cloak in defense. "I must go. I can't feel my toes anymore."

"I see what is in your mind, Ysmir. I will meet with your Dark Elf friend. I do not know if we will be able to talk as you and I once did; the other future I cannot see is my own."

"You'll get along fine, Augie," Ysmir said with a smile. "I cannot see into your mind or into the future, but I know two lonely souls when I see them."

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**Hello, everybody! Sorry for missing a week and then posting a short, semi-boring chapter. My uploads are going to continue to be a little erratic for a while, I'm afraid, as I am in the middle of moving, and will be traveling for a while after.**

**A. D. Spinner and CreationUnleased, thank you SO much for your continued reviews! I find them very encouraging! **

**Teaser: the next chapter is my favorite that I've written so far!**


	7. Chapter 7: First Meetings

Darva missed her momma. She sat listlessly at the dinner table, kicking her feet, while the boys argued over her head.

"Enough!" Papa Vilkas roared. The bickering ceased immediately, and Darva felt a pang of raw envy for Papa Vil's ability to do that. If she were still allowed to say _"Gol Hah"_ she probably could have gotten them to behave, but those were bad words now, and she didn't want to get a spanking.

"Cheer up, Honey-bee," Sofie whispered as she put a bowl of venison stew in front of her youngest sister. "Runa and I made boiled cream treats for desert."

Well, who wouldn't that cheer up? She finished up her dinner in a much better frame of mind, not even minding that Blaise and Alesan kept whispering to each other, as if she were not stuck right between them and could hear every word they said.

After dinner she helped Lucia clean up the table and wash the dishes, mind still whirling furiously with what the boys were talking about. Finally, she ventured, "Don't you think Momma's been gone an awful long time?"

Lucia stopped and looked at her. "You heard that messenger that came yesterday; Momma had to go to Raven Rock. That's a long way away! And she has to go somewhere else before she even thinks of coming home."

"I wonder why she left so quickly," Darva wondered aloud. "I mean, do you know what she was going to do?"

Lucia shrugged, using the gesture to wipe some of the suds off her cheek with her shoulder. "Whatever it was, it must be important. She hasn't left like that since the first time she had to go to Raven Rock, after all those funny-robed people with the scary bone masks attacked."

"Hmm," was all she said, gaze down so Lucia couldn't read her expression, though she could see the outlines of her round, worried face in the tub. The soap bubbles sparkled with rainbows in the light from the window, like the pretty ribbons of color that made waves across the Skyrim night. "I want to go outside," Darva stated after a while, staring at the suds-covered spoon in her hand.

"All that's left is pots, and you're not big enough to scrub them really well anyway. You go; I'll finish up," Lucia told her.

Darva gave her a look of undying gratitude as only a five-year-old could and shot out of the kitchen like the bee she was named for.

Alesan and Blaise were down by the lake, trying to hit a fish with the short, light bows the twins had gifted the boys with last Midwinter. Runa had gotten one as well, but Darva had gotten a new doll like Lucia and Sofie. She was a little put out by that, because as much as she loved her doll she had two already, and no bow. Maybe if she asked Auntie Aela to teach her it would get back to the Papas that she wanted one, even if she was too little to fight.

Quietly as she could she came up behind her brothers, hoping to scare them into getting a bit wet.

"—don't think she's coming back," Alesan was saying.

"She always comes back. She's not like…like our parents. She's the Dragonborn. She can face anything!" Blaise argued.

"She's been gone a long time. I think something bad has happened, and this time it might be too much for her," the Redguard boy said fearfully.

She halted, fear making her freeze as her stomach tied itself in a hard, tight knot. "That's not true!" Honey-bee shrieked, startling both boys so badly that they slipped. Blaise caught himself, but Alesan tumbled into the water.

"Oh, no!" Blaise cried, reaching down to help his brother. Only then did Darva see that the fish they were shooting at wasn't a trout, but one of the feared slaughterfish. The slaughterfish darted forward and caught Alesan's boot before he could get all the way out of the water, and the boy yelled in pain.

"Kill it! Kill it!" he shouted, kicking at the fish with his other foot as it held tightly to his boot. It gazed at them with beady eyes and wriggled, eliciting a cry of pain from the boy it held.

Blaise darted in and stomped on the fish as hard as he could until it went limp. Alesan gingerly pulled his foot from the boot, leaving it in the jaws of the dead fish. "Look what you did, Darva!" the Breton accused, watching the skin around the punctures swell rapidly under Alesan's horrified and fascinated gaze.

"It…it's alright," Alesan said tightly, his face scrunched up and a few tears leaking out. "Not her fault."

"Yes it is!" Blaise argued, wrenching the boot from the dead jaws.

Heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of one of the Papas. "What happened?" Farkas asked, running up with Aventus on his heels.

"Darva made Alesan fall into the water, when she saw there was a slaughterfish in there!" Blaise cried, pointing at the little girl.

"I did not! It was an accident!" Darva yelled back, tears leaking down her face as surly as Alesan's. She felt terrible; she hadn't meant to get her brother hurt, no matter what awful things he was saying.

"Why were you sneaking up behind us, then?" he demanded.

"I didn't know there was a _slaughter_fish!"

"Both of you, stop arguing," Farkas ordered. "Aventus, go get Lydia and have Runa boil some water. A little bandaging and some health potions and he'll be good as new," he said, lifting the boy and starting up the hill.

"You're such a stupid crybaby, Darva!" Blaise growled.

"I am not!" she blubbered, sniffing.

"Look what you did! And you did something to me too, just before Momma left. I bet she left because of you. You're turning into a spoiled brat that does bad things to people, and she couldn't take it anymore, so she left."

"That's not true!" the child shrieked.

"Is so! You get everything you want, all the time! You get out of chores, and people do things for you; you've never done a full, hard day's work in your life the way the rest of us have. You're just a whiny little baby, and she was sick of it, so she went away."

"I wish you had fallen into the lake instead of Alesan!" Darva yelled, then turned and ran down the road, away from the house. Blaise huffed and crossed his arms, refusing to run after her like everyone else did. He trudged back to the house. It wasn't like a five-year-old could run very far, after all.

Darva ran until her legs couldn't anymore, bending and placing her hands on her knees as she breathed deeply, glancing about. There was no one around, but a clomping from up the road made her hide behind some trees, just in case. A horse came wandering around, a pretty creature with a cream coat and empty saddle. Darva peeked out cautiously, but there was no one else around. "Hello," she told him, walking cautiously up to him. Momma had a horse—a big one with black spots on him called Jughead—and Darva had been allowed to sit on his back as Ysmir led him around the house. She liked horses. This one seemed to like her, but Darva knew that could change if it was frightened. Papa Vil had explained it to her quite seriously. She thought a moment.

_"Kaan,"_ she said quickly, hoping she said it right. Ysmir always said that when wild wolves came to fight with Precious.

The horse put his nose in her chest and made a "wuuulllf!" noise that made her giggle. She looked back down the road, toward the house that was obscured by trees at this distance. "I don't want to go back," she said sadly, "Blaise is right; it is my fault Alesan got hurt." She wiped leaking eyes on her sleeve, then gave the horse a watery smile. "Let's go look for Momma. Whenever she needs to fix the house, she goes this way. There's a mill there, and they're probably Momma's friends, or why would she buy from them?"

The horse seemed to think this was a grand idea, for he stopped to eat some grass right underneath a tall ledge of ground that Darva could easily climb and use to hop onto his back. He snorted, but responded when she tugged on one side of the reigns to get him going in the direction that she wanted. She couldn't get them untied from the pommel, but just tugging them individually seemed to work.

Not too much further down the road and she spotted a strange stack of stones just under the trees. Beside it were some pretty purple flowers she had only ever seen once, through the door to her mother's Alchemy lab. She had longed to put them in a vase, but they hadn't had any stems. These ones did, and she thought maybe if she brought them to Alesan he would like them, and wouldn't be mad at her.

She directed the horse closer to the pile, which had another ledge close by that she would be able to hop onto. A strange creaking sound reached them, and the horse froze, then fidgeted nervously. There was a flash of something behind the stones and the beast shied just as Darva was trying to get off. Slipping sideways out of the saddle, she landed with an "oof!" that drove the air out of her lungs, and landed badly on her wrist, which hurt a lot. The child wailed in protest.

The creaking was joined by rustling, and she looked up and froze. A skeleton stood by the stones, holding a sword and shield and looking around. The creaking came from bones rubbing together as it, impossibly, moved. The little girl held very, very still.

The horse wasn't so smart.

Another dead thing rounded the rise of land beside the road and began attacking the horse, which reared and plunged at it. Instinctively, Darva turned her head to see.

The hollow eye sockets of first skull fell on her, and it raced toward her with surprising speed. Darva scooted backwards as fast as she could, not even having time to stand up and run. The rusted blade of the creature sliced just where she had been.

Clumsily pulling herself to her feet, Darva turned to flee, but the dead person swung his shield arm, catching her across the back. She cried out, falling forward and catching herself with her good hand against a pine tree. Turning, she saw the skeleton raise its sword, and screamed, hiding her face against the bark.

_ "Zun Haal Viik!"_

Darva looked up in surprise at the unfamiliar, male voice that Shouted just like her momma. The sword shot from the skeleton's grasp, taking its arm with it. A man rushed it from behind her, cutting upward and shattering the bones from each other with an ugly, scary greenish sword that writhed in some places, like it had worms on it.

The bones fell to pieces and collapsed. One of them rolled to her feet and she kicked it away with a squeamish little shriek.

The man turned to her, and Darva forgot to be squeamish.

He was terrifying. He wore strange, grey-brown robes with gold dragon bones, and an awful mask that reminded her both of a picture of a squid in one of her mother's books, and the little black pincer-beetles that ate dead things. The icky sword was still unsheathed in his hand.

He took a step toward her, and Darva panicked.

_"Fus Ro Dah!"_ she Shouted as hard as she could.

The man staggered backward, nearly knocked off his feet. Darva stared. She had seen her momma send a giant flying by yelling at it with those words. Had she done them wrong?

The man laughed. It wasn't a mean laugh, and he didn't sound mad at her. "Well done, little one!" he crowed, shaking his head. He reached up and removed the mask, and his face was funny, but he was smiling, and Darva had the strange feeling she should know him. Something in him called to her, like when Grandfather visited and called her _"Kulaas."_

The man knelt in front of her, and she saw half his face was covered in scales. "Are you hurt?" he asked her, obviously concerned. He reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the thumb of his glove, examining her face as if looking for something unnamed.

She nodded, holding her wrist to her chest. "Let me see," he commanded and, slowly, she held out her wrist, which was swelling as rapidly as Alesan's foot. Gently, he prodded it, which hurt and she snatched it back, looking at him distrustfully. "Forgive me; I only wanted to see if it was broken. I do not believe it is. May I see it again? I promise not to touch."

Gazing at him suspiciously, ready to snatch her hand back the moment he even looked like he wanted to poke it again, Darva complied. Then the man held one of his hands near it, and it began to glow with familiar golden light. The light moved to surround her wrist, and the swelling immediately vanished. She twisted it experimentally, the man giving her a rueful look as she did so.

"That is not a spell I have used in a very long time," he said. "This is not how I imagined we'd meet."

"Who are you?" Darva asked, gazing up at him.

He smiled, a real, happy smile that brought an answering one from her, and said "You may call me Bormah, little one."

"I'm Darva," she said, holding out her hand like she had been taught when meeting new people. "But people call me Honey-bee."

"A sweet little girl with a surprising sting," he chuckled, taking her hand and kissing the air above it, like heroes did when they met a great lady in the stories. Darva giggled. "I admit, it fits you better than I thought it would."

"How do you know about me?" Darva asked, curious.

"I…know your mother," he replied. "She talked to me about you."

"She did? Have you seen her? Is she alright?" Darva burst out, looking up at him anxiously.

"She is very well," her new friend assured her. "But she would not be happy to hear that I came here to meet you. It's going to have to be a secret between us, alright?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Papa Vilkas says I'm too little to be allowed to keep secrets."

Bormah scowled, "Well 'Papa Vilkas' obviously doesn't know women very well."

"How come you can Shout?" Darva asked curiously, stepping out into the weak sunlight. Bormah stepped back to allow her room. He had a curious, transparent quality about him that made her feel like maybe she was dreaming this, but the day felt real, and her wrist had hurt, and she usually didn't dream smells along with sights. "Momma can yell like that, but Lydia can't, and neither can Papa Vil or Papa Farkas."

"Papa Vil _and_ Papa Farkas?" he repeated, his face slightly shocked.

Darva giggled. "They're twins. They stay with us a lot of the time. Papa Farkas is a lot of fun, but Papa Vilkas seems to think all fun things are bad. Unless they're boring after a while, like sewing. He says I can do more things like learning to fight when I'm older, but right now I'm too small and it stinks."

"And…do Papa Vilkas, Papa Farkas, and your mother all share a room?" he asked after a moment of thought.

"Of course," she said matter-of-factly, because she had to share a room and so did everyone else; even Lydia shared a room with the bard, when they had one, so why shouldn't her momma share a room with the Papas? She giggled again, "That's a funny shade of purple you're turning."

Bormah muttered something under his breath as Darva was reminded of the purple flowers that had pulled her attention over this way to begin with, and she walked over and reached out to pick one when Bormah's hand clamped around her wrist, tightly at first but then abruptly gentling. "Don't touch that, Little Bee. Those are nightshade flowers; they are beautiful but poisonous, and they grow on the graves of the dead."

Snatching her hand back, she looked aghast at the flowers. "So someone is buried here? On the side of the road? That's awful!"

He gave her a curious look, and it wasn't her imagination; she could see right through him. "Are…are you dead?" she asked fearfully, backing up a bit.

He shook his head. "I am not dead, I am just…somewhere else. I was able to send a part of myself here when you were in trouble, but I cannot stay long. Still," he looked down at his hands, then around the gravesite, "this is more, much more than I was able to do before." He smiled down at her, and she felt warm inside, "I have you to thank for that, I think."

"What did I do?" Darva asked, surprised.

"You simply are, Little Bee," he said fondly, reaching down as if to lift her, but his hands went straight through. He frowned and looked sad for a moment. "Come, we must get you on the path home," he said, walking around the rise.

The horse was shaking in place, surrounded by bones. Darva knew how it felt. At the sight of them it neighed in fright and reared, but Bormah simply said _"Kaan Drem Ov,"_ and it stopped, shivering, its golden hide twitching. Bormah took a deep breath, as if he was steeling himself for something, and for a moment he seemed solid again. In that moment he reached down and lifted her onto the horse as she squeaked in surprise. "Be safe, Little Bee," he said, "and ride straight home." He was disappearing faster than before, and Darva reached out, not wanting him to go. "Remember, this is our little secret."

Then he was gone.

.

.

.

**I love this chapter. It makes me happy, and was one of the most fun to write. I sincerely hope you all like it as much as I do. So my posting will probably be fairly erratic for a few weeks, as I will be traveling. Honestly, I thought I'd have trouble posting this week, too, but things turned out all right. We moved out of our apartment, and I had my birthday. I got to eat chocolate cake and hold a puppy yesterday, and today I got to eat leftover cake and wrote ten pages. It was a good day, despite my spilling the water from the turtle tank all over the floor. Also, because my muse likes to mess with my head, I started a prequel to this story; basically a one-shot of Ysmir in Helgen. It was sort of odd for me, because she a) went by a different name, and b) was a lot less trusting and mature. She has ten more years of development between that story and this, and it's almost like she's a different character with the same backstory. I'll probably post it at some point, and you can read what she was like as a sullen teenager.**

**Anyway, as always, please read and review. Even if you don't have much to say, just hearing that you liked it means a lot. If you didn't like it, I'd like to know what I could do better for you. **

**Cheers!**

**Evil is Relative. **


	8. Chapter 8: Something Peculiar

Ysmir frowned and watched Braith swagger away from her down the main road of Whiterun Hold. "One of these days I'm going to spank that little brat," she muttered crossly. Adrianne chuckled as she counted out the money for the former bandit weapons she had bought. They were of inferior quality, most of them, but Ysmir knew the smith could just melt them down and make pots of the ones beyond saving.

"Amren's taken notice of her behavior—he's talked about perhaps sending her to a school for the children of Imperial soldiers intent on following their parents into service. Saffir won't hear of it, though," Adrianne told her, gazing after the child. "It is strange though; those two used to get along quite well. Braith and the Battle-Born boy, I mean."

Ysmir rolled her eyes. "Blaise used to get along quite well with everyone too; then suddenly he woke up and hated girls with an antagonism to rival Ysgramor's hatred of elves."

The Imperial chuckled. "He's at that age, is he?"

The Dragonborn let out a huff of impatience. "Alesan's the same age, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with the girls."

Adrianne surprised her with a hearty laugh. Noticing her customer's questioning look, she explained, "When my father became steward and we moved into the city Idolaf would chase me around and pull my hair. Ulfberth was the one that confronted him about it one day, and that started the friendship that led to our marriage. It was years before I knew Idolaf only tormented me because he didn't know how else to get my attention."

Ysmir stared at her for a second before joining her laughter. "You think Braith picks on Lars because she likes him? You heard her; she'll pick a fight with anybody."

"So why keep antagonizing someone who will never take her up on it?" the smith asked pointedly.

"I ask myself the same question every time she picks one with me," Ysmir sighed, taking the pouch Adrianne handed her and turning away with a wave.

Just after she had sealed the deal with the blacksmith, Aela came down the road with a conflicted expression on her lovely face. "Let me guess," Ysmir drawled, "Something came up and they need you to stay."

The Huntress nodded, looking as though half her mind were elsewhere, "This is not a mission for an inexperienced member, and it calls for an archer. I am the best, perhaps the only, choice for this."

The mage sighed. "Then you must stay. I can buy a new horse at the stables; Jughead's getting lonely since the cow got stolen by a giant."

"I thought Blaise gave her to the giant to go away," the Companion said, surprised.

"I…that would explain a lot," Ysmir said, thinking back on how smug the boy had gotten for a few days after that. Well, before his attitude had gotten on her nerves and she made him go clean the stall the cow had used until it smelled more strongly of soap than anything else.

Aela laughed at the look on her face and offered to put her up for the night in Jorrvaskr, but Ysmir declined, wanting to get home as soon as possible. She hadn't been away for more than a month in so long, and she was a little shocked at how much it hurt to be away from them. Perhaps she should just pay to have someone kidnap Esbern rather than go see him herself…oh, what was she thinking?

The horse she ended up buying was a beautiful, glossy black creature called Queen Alfsigr, but Ysmir decided to call her Allie, because it would be easier for the children to pronounce. Allie was feeling frisky and glad to be out of the stables, for she trotted eagerly along the road with neck arched and tail flagged. She had a smooth, easy gait and Ysmir found herself greatly enjoying the ride, looking about the Whiterun Plains with new eyes. They really were beautiful, and it had been a long while since she had simply paid them any mind.

In the distance, a pair of giants walked their mammoth herd to a pool in one of the streams, and she reined in Allie to watch and avoid looking hostile. One of the giants noticed her anyway, and stared at her suspiciously for some time before moving on. Ysmir wondered how Blaise had managed to communicate with one, if his tale was true. They moved on quickly, going back the way they had come and allowing her to get around them in a wide arc. Allie was fast and she made much better time than she thought she would, reaching the wooded area at the base of the mountains by late afternoon. Finally, though, the night grew too dark and she made camp, Allie browsing the grass contentedly beside her. She placed a ring of fire runes around the camp, far enough away that the horse wouldn't accidently set one off, and hoped that if a rabbit had the bad sense to cross one again, it at least did it at a decent hour where she could simply finish grilling it for breakfast.

Around three in the morning she woke as Allie snorted uneasily.

Coming toward them down the road was a ghostly figure riding a horse. Ysmir had seen him before; a headless rider that galloped the roads of Skyrim by night. Watching him, she reflected on the many times she had tried to follow but gotten left behind. Of course, this was all years ago, and she hadn't had a horse then…but she hadn't had children she was eager to return to, either. So she watched the figure approach, intending to watch him gallop on past, when something peculiar happened.

The rider slowed, the ghostly horse pawing the ground nervously. Something dark appeared above them, and a dark shape reached out.

The spirit spurred his horse into action, and they shot past her camping spot with a speed she had never seen. The blot of darkness vanished as if it had never been. It was over in seconds, but left her feeling strange and shaken.

Ysmir crawled out of her bedroll and poked the fire a bit before going over to Allie. The poor steed rolled her eyes, whites showing all the way around. Aparently the incident spooked her as much as it did her new mistress, although animals didn't seem to like ghosts in general. "It's alright," she said, gently stroking the soft muzzle. _"Kaan,"_ she muttered, the first word all she needed to sooth the gentle beast. "It's alright."

Gazing out into the night after the apparition, she wondered just what that blotch could mean.

* * *

Runa saw her first. Her eldest child was up in the top of the new Alchemy tower with Sofie, staring off into space rather than doing the mending in her lap, wishing she was in the yard or the basement with one of the practice dummies. She and Sofie were altering some of Ysmir's old clothing to suit her, as her old clothing was getting too short at the ankles and too tight across the chest. Blaise had walked in on her bathing the day before and teased her about becoming a werewolf, because he saw hair that wasn't coming from her scalp. She had clubbed him a scrub brush and screamed for Lydia, who had dragged the boy away by the ear and returned to have a long talk with Runa about what it meant to become a woman. So far, Runa didn't like the sound of it, and was heartily wishing she had been born a boy.

Movement caught her attention, and she narrowed her eyes. Someone on a horse…as the figure came closer, her lips curled upward into a smile as the red hair caught the light. She whacked Sofie on the arm, and at the girl's indignant noise, pointed.

Sofie leapt to her feet, sewing forgotten, and raced down the ladder. Runa was hot on her heels, gleeful that they had caught sight of Ysmir first. She caught the girl's arm when Sofie would have turned to start running right out the door, and grabbed Jughead's hackamore, vaulting on his bare back. He looked at her curiously as she held down a hand for Sofie, pulling her younger sister up behind her and sending Jughead racing down the hill.

To her satisfaction, they reached Ysmir before the boys even noticed she was back.

"Well, look at you two," their mother said with a smile. "Taming wild horses. What's next? Am I going to wake up tomorrow to find a note saying you went to Whiterun to join the Companions?"

Runa grinned, drawing Jughead up alongside the beautiful beast her mother was riding. Her mother—how strange to think that Ysmir was only barely twice her age. "You know they won't take me for another two years," she said.

"That reminds me," Ysmir said, reaching into her bags, "Happy birthday. I'm sorry I missed it," she added.

Runa exclaimed happily as she took the package, quickly undoing the strings. The wrappings fell onto her lap, and she gasped. "This…this is…"

"Skyforge steel," Ysmir confirmed, turning it so that the girl could see the special designs Eorlund Gray-Mane had crafted into the pommel and quillons of the dagger. The blacksmith had started designing Runa weapons three years ago, the first time Aela brought Runa to Jorrvaskr, and the girl had declared that she was going to join the Companions. Her entrance to the order was only a matter of time; one had to be a minimum of fifteen years of age to be a Companion. So far, the only members in living memory to actually join at that age were Vilkas and Farkas.

"Mother…" she said, looking up with tears in her eyes. Ysmir smiled. Somehow, without Runa even noticing when she did it, Sofie had clambered from one horse to the other, and sat perched up behind Ysmir, holding to her tightly.

"I hope you got Aventus something that nice," Sofie piped up, "or he's going to be jealous."

"Uh, two children becoming thirteen in one year! In the same month! What did I do to deserve this?" Ysmir asked the sky facetiously. The girls giggled.

"Mother!" Blaise shouted, throwing down his fishing pole and racing up the road. Alesan followed more slowly, and Ysmir frowned, noting his leg was bandaged.

"Alesan got bit by a slaughterfish," Sofie murmured after glancing up at her mother's face.

"How did that happen?" Ysmir wondered aloud, halting Allie and helping Sofie slip to the ground so she could dismount.

"Darva snuck up behind them and scared them," the girl replied. "It was the same day she stole a horse."

"She what?" Ysmir demanded, voice going a bit shrill. Blaise hit her side in a running hug, and she had to fight to stay balanced. Then Aventus appeared with Lucia, both of them covered in dirt from working in the gardens, and the twins and Lydia appeared, then Inigo and Ma'Rakha, and she couldn't get a word in edgewise.

* * *

The children were all passed out in their beds (finally), and the adults were sitting around the fire, filling Ysmir in on what had happened while they were gone.

"The kitten caught a skeever, yes. It was very tasty," Inigo said proudly.

Farkas snorted, "Only a cat would think a skeever was tasty," he declared scornfully.

Inigo didn't bat an eyelash, "Only a house dog would turn up his nose at one."

"Shush," Lydia told them sternly, with the same inflection and expression she used on Precious, and Inigo and Farkas obeyed in much the same way, with identical cringes. Ysmir smothered a chuckle, but it turned into another yawn. She didn't think she could stay up much longer.

"I've covered half my bases," Ysmir told them. "I couldn't find any answers on Solstheim, although I have a…colleague who will keep searching for me, and there was nothing definitive in The Arcanaeum. That leaves Paarthurnax and Esbern."

"I'm surprised you didn't go to Paarthurnax first," Vil remarked, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes had narrowed when she mention a colleague in Solstheim, which stirred vague feelings of alarm in her she was too tired to indulge in.

"I have to be very careful with Paarthurnax," she replied, yawning in the middle of the dragon's name. "I know the Blades still watch me, occasionally. I see the reflection of their looking glass from the mountains. It's a shame they don't use the same spot twice, or I'd be able to catch them at it."

"How do you know it's them?" Farkas asked.

"They're not the only ones with spyglasses," she replied with a grin. "So what's this I hear about Honey-bee stealing a horse?"

Lydia grimaced. "She had run away from the house after an argument with Blaise. It was just after Alesan had gotten bitten, so we were all distracted. She found a hunter's horse alone on the road and assumed it was a stray, and rode it back up to the house. This was, by the way, after we had been looking for her for the better part of an hour. Farkas met her halfway on the road, after tracking her scent."

Ysmir sighed, "Sounds like my daughter," she said, then yawned hugely. "Excuse me."

"That's enough talk for one night," Vilkas declared, scooping her out of the chair without a by-your-leave. "You've been ready to drop since you arrived," he said, carrying her up the stairs.

"Just because I'm tired doesn't mean I can't walk," she protested.

"Hush, you," he replied, setting her on the bed and starting to help her with her boots.

She looked at him with astonishment for a moment. "Vil, I think you might have mistaken me for Darva—I'm Ysmir, the woman who fights dragons and can tie her own bootlaces. Or untie them, as the case may be."

He silenced her with kiss a bit more possessive than his normal, casual touches, taking her entirely by surprise. "Now," he said, "you are going to go to sleep, not wake until long after the sun has risen, then take a long, hot bath, and eat everything your daughters urge on you. Understand?"

She grinned, "Sometimes the girls urge me to try Lydia's cooking. Does that count?"

"Minx," he growled, pulling off her other boot before knocking her backward on the bed, leaving kisses and little sharp nips all over her neck and collarbone.

Ysmir gasped, "What happened to going to sleep?" she asked, suddenly breathless.

"I did say you were going to sleep in, remember?" he replied, and Ysmir found she wasn't nearly as tired as she thought she was.


	9. Chapter 9: A Good Song

Darva was looking out over the lake, in the very top of one of the towers. Ysmir watched her for a few moments as the wind played with their hair and tugged at the little girl's skirts. "Honey-bee," she said after a while, "you're never going to get that dress done by watching the water."

"Hm?" the little girl asked, turning back. After seeing him again, Ysmir was able to spot more of Miraak's features in the girl's face. She had his brow, but softened. His unfairly long eyelashes. His chin, which she firmed in the same way when she was preparing to be stubborn.

"You're the one who wanted mage robes for your doll," Sofie reminded her, pulling another stitch tight with a bit of a huff. She had been trying to show her little sister something for several minutes, but the girl hadn't been attending.

"Right," Darva replied, picking up where she had left off, placing a few ragged stitches before being distracted by the water again. Sofie sighed and returned to her own sewing—or rather, Runa's sewing. Sofie was the best at stitching of all of them, Ysmir included, so she tended to end up with most of the sewing. "Momma," Darva finally said after a long while spent gazing over the lake, "May I go?"

Ysmir sighed and reached out, soothing the blond curls back from her child's face, "Sure, Honey-bee. Don't go far, though, alright? Stay in sight of the house."

"I promise I won't go far," the girl replied, lifting up the latch and sliding down the ladder the way the boys did; putting her feet to either side and using her hands to slow herself. She didn't like the way Momma was looking at her, as if she was different than before. Something had changed, and Darva didn't know if it was Ysmir, or herself. What if Blaise was right, and she was a bad girl, and Ysmir had realized it?

She walked down to the lake, turning left to travel along the shore until she turned a bend and couldn't be seen anymore. After all, she had only promised not to go far—if she stayed within sight of the house, chances were someone would come to see what she was doing, and she just wanted to think a minute. Holding her doll tightly, tossing aside the half-finished mage robes, she sank onto a rock and dipped her feet in the water, watching the ripples around them for several minutes. Minnows gathered around her toes, scattering when she wiggled them. A frog, startled by the sudden movement, darted into the water and disappeared under the layers of sunken leaves.

Darva leaned back, letting her head hang loose on her neck as she gazed up at the clouds. They were wispy today, like layers of gauze wrapped around the world. None of them particularly resembled anything else, even to her active imagination. Wind whispered through the branches of the trees, tugging once again at her hair, though not as much as when she was in the tower. She supposed she should apologize to Sofie for wasting her time—she just didn't have much of a head for something like sewing this afternoon.

_"Butterfly, butterfly: damage or fortify. Flutters down, sapphire snow; enchanter's helper, warrior's woe. Torchbug, torchbug: little light. Bad against mages, good in a fight_—Hello?" she paused in her song to look up, eyes a little wide as she heard a noise.

A man walked out of the brush, as if he had come from the road, and smiled widely when he saw her. He had suntanned skin and white hair, and carried a lute across his back, and a flute tucked through his belt. "Well met, little singer!" he called happily. "I heard your voice from the road and couldn't help but see whose sweet voice that was!"

Darva blushed. "I didn't know anyone could hear me," she admitted.

"I'm glad I did," he replied, stopping some distance away from her and bowing at the waist. "Talsgar; itinerate minstrel and wandering wastrel, at your service."

The little girl had risen to her feet as he spoke, brushing off her skirt. Now, she blinked her big eyes in confusion. "What's a wastrel?" For that matter, she didn't know what itinerate meant, but she hadn't caught the word well enough to ask.

"It means I cannot keep money in my pocket, little one," he replied with a laugh.

"Oh. Is there a hole in it? My sister Sofie could probably fix that for you, if you ask her nicely," she advised.

Talsgar laughed again, "No, charming young thing; I cannot help but spend my money. To be fair, though," he placed one long finger along the side of his nose, "much of it is on the expense of my travels, but I never was able to pass up good cooking, especially if it's expensive!"

"Are you a bard?" Darva asked, tilting her head to the side. The sun struck up red tints from her hair, and Talsgar thought for a moment that she looked familiar.

"Yes, little one, I am," he said proudly. "I wander the wilds, in search of song. And today I found one!" he teased.

"Oh, good. We need a bard," Darva said, pleased at this. When they went walking in the woods and found a wild berry bush or a group of truffles Lydia called it a "windfall." She supposed finding a bard wandering around just after the last one quit was a windfall as well, and took his hand and started leading him to the house. Talsgar protested a bit, but didn't pull his hand away even though he had to walk half-bent over, afraid of hurting the chubby little fingers wrapped around his.

Vilkas was chopping wood near where Ysmir used to keep all the large timbers, his shirt removed after it had gotten sodden with sweat under the midday sun. He looked up when he heard an unfamiliar voice, then Darva's cheerful chatter. She smiled sweetly when she saw him, leading a stranger who paled under his tan when he saw the imposing man with the big axe frown. "Papa Vil, look! I found a bard!"

"A bard?" Vil repeated, skeptical.

"Talsgar?" Ysmir called down, having seen them emerge from the woods. The bard looked up to see his sometimes fellow traveler standing at the railing, looking down with a grin, and finally realized who the little girl reminded him of.

"Ho, Ysmir!" he called, quite jovial, "This little one tells me you are in need of a bard, and seems to like me for the job."

"Hah!" she replied, swinging her legs over the railing and doing something quick and semi-acrobatic that brought her safely to the ground. One of the two boys by the woodpile watched this closely and she pointed at him, "Don't even think about it," she ordered. She was wearing a green tunic that came to her knees and charcoal trousers, and Talsgar thought she looked a lot more comfortable than when she was in armor. "I thought you said you were never planning on staying in one place. So, what? My daughter kidnapped you off the road?"

"As always, your assessment of the situation seems to be correct, with the tiny variation of we were just off the road," he replied.

"Can we keep him?" Darva asked, glancing from one to the other.

Ysmir laughed. "Ah, Honey-bee. People are not like animals; you can't just adopt them when they follow you home."

Darva glanced at the boys. "You did," she pointed out, and Vilkas gave a burst of laughter. Ysmir glared at him and he coughed, still smiling.

"That's…different. Anyway, would you like to stay for a bit, Talsgar? No obligation as to the duration, of course," she added with a grin.

"I would be honored, friend," he assured her, and Darva snatched his hand again and practically dragged him inside.

Vilkas leaned over and asked, quietly, "How do you know him?"

Ysmir gave him an incredulous look, "You've travelled the roads of Skyrim for how long and you've never met him? It felt like I was running into him all the time."

"I tend not to use roads," he reminded her with a shrug.

"Right. Well, after a few dozen times running into each other, or passing each other, or coming to the other's aid when wolves rushed out, we got snowed into the Nightgate Inn for about three or four days. We talked, we drank, we shared stories…"

"Is that all you shared?" he asked suspiciously.

Ysmir scowled a bit, "Why the keen interest in my choice of bedmates lately? No, we did not," not for his lack of trying, though. Unfortunately for Talsgar, Ysmir only had the overwhelming urge for intimacy after battling dragons, although with some, like Odahviing or Paarthurnax, it was curbed by actually being able to speak with them.

Farkas stuck his head around the side of the house, saw them, and approached. "Darva just dragged a strange man into the house and started showing him around. She said he was the new bard."

"He _a_ bard, but he's not _our_ bard," Ysmir said, breaking her staring contest with the other twin. She grinned at the friendlier one, "Actually, he's an old friend of mine, and has a rather nice voice. It'll be nice to hear him sing again."

* * *

_"And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin's rage. Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age. If Alduin is eternal then eternity's done. For his story is over and the dragons are... gone,"_ Talsgar finished with a flourish of strings. The children applauded wildly, for the last bard had been…not so good as their mother's old friend. "Thank you! Thank you kindly," he said, bowing courteously to his audience.

"It's a shame he can't stay," Lydia observed wistfully, her chin propped on her hand. "That was wonderful," she told the bard as he came to get a drink.

He flashed her a grin that made Ysmir hope he drank enough to pass right out tonight rather than try anything with her housecarl, especially as their beds were in the same room. "When did you get instruments?" she asked, trying to distract him.

Talsgar laughed, "I only just managed to save enough to buy them! You know how I am with a good meal, my friend. I've had nothing but the plainest fair for months, but I finally managed enough."

Ysmir laughed with him, thinking of all the times she had wandered upon random drums, flutes, or lutes in bandits' nests. If she had known he wanted one he would have been outfitted long since, and with no one out of any coin (except the bandits, who were hardly in a position to need it).

Inigo broke in with a request for a comedic song from Cyrodiil about a Khajiit who fell for a blind priestess of Dibella and tried all sorts of methods of getting her attention, up to pretending to be a kitty when she found him at her window! The Nords looked confused, but Ysmir whacked him with a grilled leek, "Wait until the children are asleep before you start in on the bawdy stuff!"

"Speaking of which…" Lydia started, glancing over at the waterclock. The children all groaned, knowing what was coming. "Oh, hush. You've all been up far past your bedtime, tonight," was how the housecarl responded to their grousing. Ysmir rose and the two women ushered the children downstairs to the bathing room while Inigo finally got his bawdy song.

* * *

"Sky Haven Temple?" Talsgar repeated, brow furrowing as he looked down at the location on the map, "Surely I've heard of it—who hasn't heard of the return of the dragon-slaying Blades?—but why would you want me to go there?"

The two old friends were sitting before the fireplace, surrounded by cozy darkness and the quiet sounds of her family asleep. Precious had elected to lie on Talsgar's feet—which Ysmir found astonishing, since the ice wolf had been with them for several years and had yet to do more than acknowledge her presence with a cold glare or faint growl.

Ysmir gazed meditatively at the flickering glow of the coals, the sullen red and deep, intermittent darkness of the charcoal reminded of the Dremora Lords she used to summon. She took another sip of brandy before she answered, "I cannot go there myself, but I need to get a message to someone who is there."

The bard looked a bit petulant. "I'm a bard, not a courier, Ysmir."

"A courier couldn't get in. A bard might just be welcomed in," she replied. "Look, I know it's in the opposite direction than you were traveling, and is in an area surrounded by Foresworn, but I can't trust just anyone with this," she gave him a pleading look. "I wouldn't even be talking to these people if I had a choice."

Talsgar groaned, looking at her with dismay, "Not the lost puppy face."

"Please?" she asked, looking—had she but known it—just like her daughter when the child wanted something. "It won't be just a favor, either, Talsgar. I'll pay you for your trouble. I'll pay for bodyguards if you feel you need them, even."

Finally, he sighed in capitulation. "You're going to be the death of me, Dragonborn."

She handed him another bottle of mead with a grin. "But won't it make such a good song?"

.

.

.

**Sorry for the lateness, but I have a good reason! As of yesterday I am officially moved into my new place! Moving sucks majorly, but the new house is so much nicer than our old apartment!**

**I always loved running into Talsgar on the road-he was my third favorite, after M'aiq and wandering bands of Thalmor. So when I decided to actually make a story of this, I knew I had to have him in here somewhere. I want to include M'aiq too, but I'm not sure how. **

**In other Skyrim news, my game crashed so hard I had to re-download it, so I went a week without Skyrim inspiration. :( In better news, I now have both Oblivion and Morrowind to play! So I'll probably be including more references to past games in later chapters. Why? Because my Muse can only do so many things at once, and they bleed into eachother like markers on wet paper. **

**As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you to everyone who read and commented and favorited! You give me the enthusiasm to continue. **


	10. Chapter 10: Trouble in Paradise

In the end, after hearing from Talsgar what conditions were currently like in the Reach, it was decided that Ysmir herself would go, along with the twins, to ensure the bard's safe arrival at Sky Haven Temple. The Dragonborn was reluctant, but Talsgar pointed out that it might be easier to convince Esbern to talk to her if she were relatively close by.

"I hate to be leaving them so soon," she fretted, gazing back over Jughead's rump at the house dwindling in the distance. A few tiny figures could just barely be made out watching from the nearer tower. One of them was Darva, the other was either Sofie or Lucia, judging from size.

"They'll be fine," Farkas assured her with a grin. "Lydia and Inigo are with them."

"Not to mention Aela should return from her mission within the week," Vilkas put in, gazing around alertly. "She always stops in around the little one's birthdays."

"Ysmir," Talsgar put in musingly after a few more moments of her watching the house disappear to distance and woods, "I was wondering…how did you end up with so many children? They cannot all be yours."

The twins snickered. "Ysmir has a habit of taking in strays," Farkas told the bard. "It doesn't matter what they are."

"Ah, I remember that," the older man replied, scratching the stubble appearing on his chin. "The first time I met her she was being followed around by a wild dog."

"Meeko," Ysmir supplied. "He wasn't wild, his owner had just died. I left him with Haming and his grandfather. The boy needed a friend and I just couldn't care for him at the time."

"Lucia was an orphan in Whiterun," Vil picked up the tale as if Ysmir hadn't spoken, eyes still scanning the hillsides. "Her aunt and uncle took over her dead mother's farm and tossed her out to beg on the streets. Ysmir saw her once, paid for her to stay in the inn for a week, and returned to say she had a room all set up for her in her house."

Ysmir shrugged. "What did I need with a room that big, anyway?"

"Then she solved a murder in Windhelm," Farkas continued, "and while she was there she heard of Aventus living all alone in his dead parent's house—"

"—doing nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever—"

"—and marched in there, threw him over her shoulder, and took him home!" Farkas crowed.

"I did no such thing!" Ysmir snapped, then grinned. "I merely took some time to convince him things wouldn't be so bad at the orphanage if he gave it another shot." That she had made things better at the orphanage was beyond the point.

"Of course," Vil said blandly, eyes shining as he shot her an amused look, "the first time she visited him at the orphanage, she ended up taking him home. Runa met her at the door with her bags packed and said in no uncertain terms that she did not want to stay in the orphanage a moment longer, and that she'd hire herself out as Ysmir's serving maid if she had to."

"Of course, this was seven years ago, so that was just adorable," Farkas gushed in an imitation of one of the girls when they've seen something cute. Ysmir kicked at him and he ducked.

Ysmir gave both of them a quelling glare. "You aren't even telling it right," she admonished them. "All right. First was Lucia, which you heard. Only a few months after that were the murders in Windhelm, where I heard the rumors about Aventus, and within three months he and Runa were living with me. Then I met Alesan in Dawnstar while on the way to Solitude, and basically just packed him up to come with me. We passed by a stable where Blaise was working as a stable-boy, and the two began playing. Once I learned about him, I couldn't just leave him. A little less than a year later, we were attacked by cultists from the island of Solstheim, and I headed out to Raven Rock to start to investigate. Sofie was selling flowers by the entrance to the docks from Windhelm. Her father died in the war. I couldn't get her out of my mind when I was in Raven Rock, and so when I returned I took her home with me." That about summed it up, but Talsgar was looking at her with disappointed disbelief for her lack of storytelling skills.

"And when she got home," Farkas said with a laugh, "Lydia begged her no more! Even with Vil and I coming out to help, and Inigo assisting, it was too much to handle without Ysmir there."

"So I agreed not to bring home any more children—"

"—only to find out she was pregnant!" Farkas finished, laughing.

"But all the children really put effort into being good after Darva was born," Ysmir said, ignoring the penetrating look Vilkas was giving her, as if he had just realized something. "They all grew up a little, when they got a baby sister."

"But of course now they're all bringing home pets," Farkas chuckled, and regaled Talsgar with all the strange things that had been in the house over the years, from Precious the cranky ice wolf to a mudcrab named Butter that had disappeared into the lake.

"Ysmir," Vil said quietly from her stirrup under his brother's chatter, and she glanced down in surprise. His black-ringed eyes were gazing at her keenly, "Darva's father…is he from Raven Rock?"

"No," she replied, looking forward. It wasn't a lie, either. She doubted Raven Rock had been established when Miraak was walking about.

The werewolf scowled, "But he's from the island?" he persisted.

She sighed, "He was…I met him while on the island, yes. I can't say if that's truly where he was from." For one thing, the island hadn't existed until Miraak opposed the dragon rule.

"Why don't you want to talk about this?" he asked.

"Why do you? I messed up and wound up pregnant—not that I regret it. That's all there is to it," as far as he was concerned, anyway.

"You don't…" Vil broke off, heaving a sigh in exasperation that let her know she'd won, for the moment.

Thankfully, by the end of the day they were at the borders of the Reach, and between Foresworn and frostbite spiders, they had their hands full. It took the better part of a week to reach their camp spot, chosen carefully near but not-too-near Sky Haven Temple. Talsgar set out just after dinner on Jughead so that he would reach the temple only a little after dark, as if he were lost and had seen the lights.

Of course, as soon as he was gone, Vilkas descended.

Farkas headed out to get firewood after a tense conversation Ysmir pretended not to notice as she rolled out sleeping rolls. When Talsgar was with them, they slept in separate ones, but now she simply piled them into one big one—it was much warmer that way, and she wasn't a cold-resistant Nord like the twins were. Since it looked like it might rain, she hooked the top of the tent cloth over a low pine branch, staking down the corners. She was inside fixing the back top corner when he snuck up behind her.

He trapped her between his chest and the tree, hands roving with a purpose that took her a bit off-guard coming from Vilkas. She responded immediately, trying to turn, but he shoved her back against the tree roughly, growling under his breath. What little she could see proved his eyes were glowing. Ysmir gasped, a little excited despite the slight sense of outrage she felt. The werewolf didn't bother fully undressing her, simply removing what needed to be moved before spinning her around and taking her against the tree, his hands and lips rougher and more possessive than she could ever remember them being before. She clung to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as she gasped, nails digging into his back.

Abruptly he slowed, lifting his glowing eyes to meet hers. "Who is he?" he asked, thrusting once, hard, to the question.

"What?" she managed, dazed.

"Darva's father. Who. Is. He?"

She groaned, feeling as if he were torturing her. "Really, Vilkas? _Now?"_

He stopped, holding her captured, unfulfilled and unable to move against the rough tree bark. "Who is it, Ysmir?" he demanded.

"Why does it matter to you?" she challenged, beginning to get angry.

"Because it matters to you," he yelled, surprising her again. Vil usually had a better reign on his temper. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Let it go, Vil," she pleaded, resting her head against the tree and gazing up into the branches. It had begun to rain, and drops had been falling on her for some time. She hadn't noticed until this point.

Vil took a step back, drawing out of her and letting her down, still gazing at her with that angry granite mask. Curtly, he turned and walked out of the tent and into the woods. There was a moment of silence, then a heart-stopping howl rent the air, nearly drowned out by a peal of thunder. She hoped the Blades couldn't hear that, or they would come looking.

Ysmir sank down on the sleeping rolls, aroused, bereft, and no little bit angry. She didn't want to think about Miraak. There was no place in her life, in her children's life, for the new Daedra, so why did it matter? And…she didn't want them to know. She didn't want to talk about it, to admit to it, to admit that…

She sighed with frustration, falling back on the furs and concentrating on being annoyed at her lover.

"I thought he might have left you like this," Farkas commented, joining her. She glanced at him, letting him see her irritation, and he smiled, hand stroking her thigh very gently. Ysmir was so hyped up she mewed involuntarily. "Don't worry," he said, pulling her gently to him—despite everything, Farkas was always gentle—"I won't leave you like that…"

* * *

Vilkas returned sometime in the night, for Ysmir woke to find him in his usual spot, tucked in beside her, opposite his brother. The pair of them were both cover hogs, which resulted, ironically enough, in perfect coverage as they each tugged on opposite sides of a blanket. His chest was against her back, leg between hers, while Farkas had a leg thrown over both of them, and an arm around her shoulder. Ysmir snuggled deeper under the covers and went back to sleep.

He was gone at breakfast.

"He has a lot to think on right now," Farkas told her when she expressed her irritation, shoveling horker stew left over from the night before in his mouth. "And he doesn't like it when people keep secrets."

"Well, sometimes 'people' just don't want to talk about some things," Ysmir groused, running a hand through her hair. One of the girls had apparently "borrowed" her brush from her travel pack, so she had no other way of combing it, which added to her irritation. She wondered briefly if she should start wearing it short again.

"He hasn't told you yet, has he?" the Companion asked abruptly, watching her for a long moment.

She glanced at him, taken aback, "Told me what?"

"Before that last mission with all the bandits, Kodlak had a meeting with him. Seems the old man is thinking of setting Vil up to be the next Harbinger."

Ysmir stared at him, coming to sit slowly beside him. "But that's wonderful. I know it's something he wants, so why is he acting so, so…"

"He won't be around as much, Ysmir," Farkas pointed out with a shrug. "He loves those children, and you in his own way, and even Lydia and Inigo and the kitten. He'll have to spend most of his time in Jorrvaskr, and leave you all behind."

Ysmir softened, glancing off in the direction Vil had gone the night before. "What does this have to do with Darva's father?"

"Don't you see? If you decide that you truly do care for this man—one you've had a child with, and marriage has been based on less in Skyrim—he won't have any claim on them whatsoever. If this man doesn't like Vil, or want him around, there is nothing he can do about it. What I really think, Ysmir, is that Vil is scared of losing you and the children. He'd probably put on an Amulet of Mara for you himself if he thought it would really help rather than sending you running in the other direction."

Ysmir felt her mouth drop open and closed it with a snap. "I would never deny Vil—or you—access to the children. They love you. Even if I—for some unfathomable reason—decided to marry, it wouldn't be to someone who couldn't handle the fact that my children already have two werewolf fathers."

"And a dragon grandfather, and another dragon uncle," Farkas continued with a smile, but Ysmir could tell she had put him at ease. He rose, carrying his bowl and spoon toward the little rivulet of water, too small to be called a stream, that they had camped beside.

"Farkas…" he paused, glancing back at her with a neutral expression, "I…" she hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I promise, I will eventually tell you two who Darva's father is, but for right now? Let's just enjoy what we have."

"Sounds like a plan," the Companion replied with a smile.


	11. Chapter 11: Blade's Scholar

Ysmir heard them long before she saw them. Esbern, while technically a Blade, was still an old man, and so his footsteps were slow and careful coming up the steep hill that they had chosen for their campsite. It was partially graveled, so anyone attacking from that side had to fight their way up a slippery slope, then work far harder than the defenders to keep their footing as they fought. The sheer cliff face behind them ensured that even the most sure-footed mountain climber wouldn't dare try to sneak up on them that way, and the sides narrowed to paths a goat couldn't take long before they were in a position to be reached.

Putting down the stack of wood she had been carrying, Ysmir stretched, rolling her head to loosen tense muscles and mentally bracing herself for the argument that was surely to come. She had already donned her armor, a simple set of chainmail that went over her mage robes, doubly enchanted to preserve the health and protection of the wearer, so she simply moved to the edge and stood waiting for them to top the rise. Talsgar blinked in surprise to see her, noting how tense and weary she was of the friendly elder he had brought back with him.

"Dragonborn! I had not thought the mysterious person this fellow wanted me to talk to would be you," the scholar said, halting the moment he saw her. "I have nothing to say to you. You have made your choice," with that, he turned and began walking down the hill.

"This isn't about me, Esbern," Ysmir called. "This is about what you said in High Hrothgar, before we parted ways."

Esbern halted, then slowly turned, uncertainty in his gaze. His vows as a Blade, he had told her, prevented him from giving her comfort or aid while Paarthurnax lived, but she thought she knew how to get around that. If she wasn't the real Last Dragonborn, then it was not just her problem, or Darva's, it was everyone's.

"What did I say, Dragonborn?" he asked, obviously undecided.

Ysmir glanced at Talsgar and jerked her head toward the campsite. The bard took the hint and hurried off. The woman watched him go for a few seconds, then looked back to the Blade scholar. "When I told you that I was unable to absorb Alduin's soul, you theorized that perhaps he was still fated to return one day, to fulfil his destiny as World-Eater."

"You have completed the prophesy, Dragonborn. There is nothing more for you to do except that which you will not; to destroy the rest of the dragons and send them from Nirn forever," Esbern said sternly, turning to walk further down the hill.

"I may have met another Dragonborn."

Esbern froze as surely as if she had encased him in ice, then took a deep breath and walked back up the hill, staring her in the eyes. "Trying to trick me is beneath you, Ysmir. I know of the Dragon Priest you faced on Solstheim, just as I know you failed to do what was right with him, as well. For some reason you, who could be the instrument of justice long deserved, have decided to let these fiends continue to exist. Paarthurnax and the Dragonborn Miraak were horrible, vicious creatures who killed many before they vanished into hiding. I cannot understand why you let them live, and I certainly cannot condone it."

Ysmir crossed her arms, "Paarthurnax taught men the Voice so that they had a chance against dragons. He betrayed his own people in favor of ours. He helped overthrow Alduin and the dragon rule the first time, and now the second. Even the gods don't exact punishment after penitence, so why should I?"

Esbern sighed, "I should have known better than to try to shame you into doing your duty," he said tiredly.

"As for Miraak, there's no point in even trying to kill him anymore—"

"Oh, is there not?" Esbern snorted. "More followers flock to him every year, Dragonborn. His temple is nearly completed, and he's been seen walking not only its halls, but elsewhere on the island of Solstheim. He grows in power and you do nothing to stop him!"

Ysmir's breath caught. He was able to appear on Tamriel again? When had that happened? She covered her fluster with a dry tone, "I'm Dragonborn, Esbern, not a champion against Daedric Princes."

"It was my understanding that Hermaeus Mora had abandoned him," Esbern replied, not letting her budge.

"Hermaeus Mora is him," she revealed, and had the satisfaction of seeing him shocked. "Miraak defeated him and took over Apocrypha."

"That's impossible," the old man breathed, dropping his arms. If this were a physical, rather than verbal sparring match, Ysmir would have struck, for in that moment all his defenses were down.

Well, she supposed she should strike anyway. "It is both possible and not my problem at the moment. He wasn't the Dragonborn I was referring to. I may have met a completely new Dragonborn."

"You've seen them consume a dragon soul?" Esbern asked after a moment, a bit of excitement coming to his eyes, quickly shuttered.

Ysmir was a bit alarmed—she had been thinking of Darva so much that the obvious hadn't occurred to her; that the Blades would undoubtedly begin searching for this new Dragonborn to join the Blades and lead their cause. They couldn't know that it was but a little girl, who thought of dragons as nothing more than a different type of people. "Well, no, but they picked up Shouts the same way I can. I was given the impression by the Greybeards that only those with dragon blood can do this."

"By the gods," he muttered, looking down at his boots as if the answers lay there, strewn at his feet among the gravel and leaf litter.

"If I was truly not the Last Dragonborn, Esbern, I need to know. Has everything I've done been for nothing? And if so, am I to help the real Last Dragonborn defeat Alduin?" she looked away, rubbing her forehead as she realized he would not be able to help her with this unless he put aside his vows, whether or not the rest of the world was in danger. He might just decide his duty was to abandon her and train this other Dragonborn. It would probably go a long way towards bandaging their wounded prides, if she turned out to be a false Last Dragonborn and this new one led them on the way to victory.

Evidently, this thought had crossed his mind, as well. "I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't ask—no, order you to stay away from this new Dragonborn, Ysmir," he said sternly. "If in fact Dragonborn they are. The Greybeards have not called a new Dovahkiin to High Hrothgar, after all. It could just be this person is one of the Tongues of old. Even though Dragonborn are Tongues, it doesn't follow that every Tongue is Dragonborn." He sighed, "This must not get around, either, as much as some might like to discredit you, who no longer hunt dragons. If people thought the World-Eater was to return, there would be panic."

"And they would probably knock down my door to either beg me to save them or tear me apart for failing. And before some of you begin to think that's a good idea, remember that I have half a dozen children living there who would get caught in the crossfire." Greatly daring, she reached out and caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Please, Esbern. I don't care if everyone thinks me false, but those children have already lost everything once. Don't allow that to happen to them again."

After a moment, he stepped back from her hands, which fell listlessly to her sides. "I will research this, Dragonborn. For now, we know only that this is speculation. Perhaps some are better at learning Shouts than others, and this person is not truly Dragonborn, simply talented in the Greybeard's Way of the Voice. I will not voice this to any other until I know which is the case. I do this not to help you, but to preserve what peace there is in this war-torn country."

Ysmir nodded even as her heart dropped, stepping back and letting him go down the hill, where Talsgar offered to let him ride Jughead on the way back to Sky Haven Temple, but Esbern refused, walking off alone into the hills. The Dragonborn sighed, deeply regretting coming here, talking to one who could decide to make her life very difficult. Farkas had kept watch at a discreet distance up until this point, but now he padded up behind her, and she could hear the question that he refused to ask. "I'm fine," she told the Companion, giving him a wan little smile over her shoulder. "Just…I wish these people didn't hate me so much," she revealed, a bit of a catch in her voice.

"What did you do to them?" he asked, coming up beside her.

"It's what I didn't do," she told him, vaguely aware of Vilkas somewhere to her right, still hidden, listening, in the trees. "I didn't destroy Paarthurnax, a dragon. I didn't betray the Greybeards, who taught me. I didn't join them. I didn't lead them," she glanced up at Farkas's slightly stricken face—Farkas, who was the first to speak to Paarthurnax and watch him play Old Dov with the fascinated children, and who knew Paarthurnax would sooner die than hurt Ysmir—and let her fear show on her face. "Now I might have given them a weapon against me, all because I didn't think through just what my coming here would mean." She sighed and scrubbed at her eyes, vaguely surprised to feel the beginning of tears welling there. The scholar's stonewalled refusal had hurt more than she thought it would, and was much, much stronger than she had surmised. "I thought I could trust Esbern at least, but you saw his reactions. If Alduin returned right this moment, he would not aid me. He would fight against the Black Dragon with all his strength, but not at my side. I am all but dead to him, Farkas. A blight, a disappointment, and the Blades will wish to be rid of me if they can."

"Then we'll have to ensure they never discover who the next Dragonborn is," Vilkas finally put in, coming to stand beside her and taking her hand.

"Vil…" she said, a question in her violet eyes as she studied his expression.

"We'll stand by you, Ysmir," Farkas said for his twin, taking her other hand. "Both of us, no matter what happens."

Vilkas smiled and squeezed her hand. "No matter what," he reaffirmed. "We'll be here."

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**Hi, guys. Thank you for all your reviews and favorites! I'm afraid there most likely will not be a chapter up next week, since my car is finally done at the mechanics, and I am getting to visit my parents, who live in a dead zone. I will try, but it will depend a lot on the weather and luck. If I can't, I'll put two chapters up when I come back, if you want. **

**elas: Thank you very much. ^_^**

**CreationUnleashed: Give it about ten chapters and you'll see for yourself! :P**


	12. Chapter 12: Different

Darva was beginning to think the boys were having her on. True, she had asked to play hide-and-seek with them because she knew the perfect hiding place, but they had not found her in what felt like forever. She poked her head out of the hollow she had found in the roots of the fallen tree on the hill across the road from Pinewatch, Uncle Inigo's home, but didn't see them. Ma'Rakha and Aventus were playing marbles in the front yard there, so she scampered down to ask. Aventus looked at her like she was unbelievably dense. "Blaise and Alesan went fishing with Uncle Inigo ages ago!"

She stamped her foot, "They were supposed to come find me! We were playing hide-and-seek!"

Ma'Rakha grinned, pointed ears twitching toward her, "Look on the bright side," he said, "You obviously won!"

Darva thought about it and didn't feel so badly, after that.

"Do you want to do me a favor, Honey-bee?" Aventus asked, and she looked at him curiously. "We're out of blue mountain flower, and Lydia likes having some around, because it's just about the only thing she can make health potions with. I couldn't find any around the house; do you think you could bring back any you find? I know you like to explore."

Ma'Rakha looked at him askance. "What if she gets in trouble?"

"It's alright," he assured the Khajiit with a smile. "Honey-bee can take care of herself." Darva smiled widely and took the basket—carrying it on her head since she was scarcely taller than it—rushing off back towards where she had come with a wave and an ego-boost. She knew right where to go, too.

"How can she take care of herself?" Inigo's adoptive son demanded of his "cousin."

Aventus looked surprised. "Didn't you know? Darva can Shout. Don't tell anyone, though. I only know because I overheard the Papas talking about it."

Ma'Rakha thought for a moment. "As long as she doesn't Shout at me," he said at last, returning to the game, "It's bad enough when ordinary women shout, Papa says, without the Dragon Voice coming into it."

Meanwhile, Darva was headed to her favorite spot, one she normally didn't get to go to because it was so very far from the house; a bit more than a quarter hour walk from Pinewatch, and a bit of a climb. She scrambled up hills that weren't too steep until she heard the sound of water, and there was a pretty mountain stream with flowers all about it. She had found slaughterfish eggs here, once, so she didn't swim in the pools, although they looked inviting, but she did stop to pick about half of the blue mountain flowers that grew there. Only half, because she knew that if she was lazy like the boys and picked all of them, more wouldn't grow here. Once done, she headed upstream, to a small, door-less shack that looked as if it had been burnt at some point. Behind the house, a lovely waterfall arched down from a high promontory, falling to cascade over a ledge then into a basin of sweet, clear water.

Darva settled herself with her back against the shack, watching the water. Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to find a skeever turning the corner. It had apparently set up shop in the house. _"Kaan,"_ she said, without waiting to see what it would do. Peace settled over the creature, and she rose, shooing it away until it scampered off into the underbrush. It would either find a new home, or she would have to do this every time she came up here, which she was not looking forward to. Perhaps Sofie could have brought it home and made a pet out of it, but she certainly had no inclination to. Besides, she was nowhere near as good with animals as Sofie was.

"Not what I would have done."

The little girl squeaked—not unlike a skeever—and turned, then her face lit with a welcoming smile. "Bormah!" she said, rushing over to hug her friend. He hesitated, like he wasn't entirely sure what to do, then knelt and held her for a long moment.

Bormah looked her over carefully, smoothing her hair away from her face. "I heard you Shout," he said at last. "I wanted to know you were alright."

She dimpled, "I'm fine. I'm sorry if I bothered you; I didn't think anyone could hear me up here. That's why I come up here," she wrinkled her nose, "it gets so noisy in the house sometimes."

He smiled, the scales on one side of his face sliding subtly against each other. Darva longed to be able to ask him about that, but she knew it would be rude. She had already gotten scolded once for asking an Argonian visitor about why he had scales, being told only "some people do." "I myself used to go off into the hills when the burden of those around me became too much to bear. Solitude is necessary, sometimes, for one to remember themselves. I used to wonder if that was why your mother wandered so much" he added musingly, "So many people try to tell her who to be."

"Blaise is from Solitude," she said, confused.

He looked confused as well for a moment, then his face cleared and he chuckled. "Forgive me, Little Bee. I forget sometimes that children are not tiny adults. You must let me know when what I say confuses you."

"I will," she promised, unabashed, and he chuckled again.

"I brought you a gift," he said, reaching behind him and bringing out a book.

Darva took the book curiously, opening it up and leafing through the pages. "I only know a few words," she said, brow creasing, "but they don't look like this."

"That's because this is a book of the Dragon Language," he said, settling himself beside the house, as she had done. Darva slid down next to him, tucking her skirt around her legs. "I thought, since you can Shout, you might like to learn it."

"Really?" she asked, looking up at him with her face glowing with interest.

"Would I say it if it were not so?" he countered, taking the book and opening it to the first page.

Darva drank in the words before her like she never had with ordinary ones. It was still difficult, and she struggled and didn't get very far, but Bormah was patient with her as he taught her the shapes of the words. Strangely enough, she felt as if she should know them already, and was mildly frustrated by it, as if she were trying to remember something that should be obvious. Bormah must have picked up on that, for after a while he offered to simply read a bit to her, first in the language of the book, then again in Tamrielic.

The book was a story about a young dragon, but he was born in a weak form, a different form. He was so different the other dragons didn't realize that he was one of them, and thought him something else entirely. The people he looked like raised him, cared for him, but could never understand him, though they believed they did. Darva thought of the poor dragon boy as a Wood Elf being raised among the ancient, mysterious Dwemer; always wanting to go outside and be among the trees while those around him could not understand why he wasn't happy, safe underground with tons of carved stone and metal between him and the sky.

When she voiced this, Bormah gazed at her in surprise. "Very much so," he said, and she noticed that he was looking quite transparent.

"You have to go again, don't you?" she asked, disappointed.

"Yes," he said simply, looking regretful.

"I wish you could stay," she sighed wistfully.

"I do too," was all Bormah said, and they both watched the waterfall for a long moment, book still spread over both their laps. "Do you want to know how to get rid of that skeever?" he finally asked.

"I don't want to hurt it," she responded instantly, gazing up at him with wide eyes. She looked, for a moment, very much like her mother, in that fateful instant he had realized that he did not want to kill her.

He shook his head, once, in impatience. "Scare it then. Do you want to scare it away for good?"

"Please," she answered, nodding in a decidedly business-like manner that brought a smile back to his face.

Bormah stood and looked around, then walked over to a section of soft earth. _"Faas,"_ he breathed at it, and markings like in the book appeared on the ground. Darva got up and walked over, gazing bemusedly at the marks. Suddenly, they seemed to rush into her, the way the ones in the book had, but different, deeper. Looking up at him, she saw faint ribbons of light pass between them. At her wondering, questioning gaze, he explained, "I passed onto you my knowledge of the Word. It is how the Greybeards taught your mother, and how she inadvertently taught you what Shouts you know." There was a bit of a pause. "You are very gifted, you know. Most need to see the word etched in order to start the process of understanding its meaning. You seem to be able to do so merely by hearing it a few times."

Darva shook her head. "It was on the ground," she explained, and when he glanced at her, she shrugged. "After Mamma sent things flying with that Shout, there were always scratches on the ground. I would stare at them for a bit…but they would vanish, like yours is. I never got to ask her about them."

Another pause. "Ah. I see. That would explain much."

"Bormah," she said hesitantly, gazing up at his dragon eye, "Why am I the only one who learned how to Shout? Why can I do it, and Momma do it, but Lydia or Blaise can't?" She tilted her head to the side. "And how come you can do it too?"

Bormah hesitated, then knelt before her, taking her shoulders in hands that were barely there in the late afternoon sunlight. She could see the westerning sun right through his head, the incandescent disk showing perfectly through his dragon eye, as if it had replaced it. "Because we're special, Darva. Because we're _dovahkiin._" With that, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, above her wide, wide eyes, and vanished.

Darva sat down abruptly right where she was, hands clutching the emptiness where the book had been and staring blankly into the beginnings of sunset.

_Dovahkiin._

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He let his hands fall to his sides and sighed, looking about him. Pages fluttered in a breeze only they felt, whirling about him before abruptly settling to join the layers of parchment that covered the ground. Tomes floated restively through the still air, burying themselves in the stacks of the walls while a Seeker flitted past, ignoring him in its hunt. Miraak stood, wondering if he had told the girl too much. He had answered her question, but…Reaching inside his robes he pulled out his mask and slid it over his face, replacing his troubled expression with the calm indifference of the bronzed metal.

Apocrypha had never seemed so empty.

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**Yay! Let's hear it for cloudless days! I can't watch videos, or even see pictures, but I can apparently post a chapter! **

**V: lol**


	13. Chapter 13: The Assassin on the Road

Ysmir looked down at the dead assassin at her feet and half-sighed, half-snorted in exasperation. "Do they even have any members left?" she asked rhetorically, carefully checking the armor for anything useful. She was grateful Talsgar had already parted ways with them, having decided to head on to Falkreath rather than Rorikstead. She wished him luck.

The search turned up thirteen septims, an average-quality orcish dagger, and the usual note:

_"As instructed, you are to eliminate Ysmir by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed—somebody wants this poor fool dead._

_We've already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option,"_ signed, "Astrid." This one had a post-script, however, that almost made her smile: _"Try not to get yourself killed. This is getting embarrassing."_

Ysmir crumpled it up, then smoothed it out and put it in her belt pouch. She collected the things. She must have over twenty by now. "Sooner or later I might just have to deal with them," she muttered.

"I don't know why you haven't," Vilkas informed her, nudging the dead Khajiit with a toe.

"Sithis," she replied dryly. "I've had trouble enough with Daedra to think he would take me slaughtering his most faithful followers personally, and decide to let me know it bothered him." She grinned wryly as both twins blanched. "So, let us return home." When they exchanged a glance, she sighed, "Now what?"

"It's been awhile since we checked in at Jorrvaskr," Farkas said with a shrug. "Almost a month."

She sighed. "Ah, go. I'll just take Jughead home." The twins exchanged looks again and she snapped, "I've been on my own before, you know. It's not like I couldn't summon Odahviing, or even Durnehviir, if I got into something I didn't think I could get myself out of!"

Vilkas rolled his eyes, "Would you even know if you had gotten yourself in over your head?" he muttered, apparently forgetting she had elven hearing.

"We would simply feel better if you had someone to watch your back," Farkas interjected quickly, seeing the indignation rising in her expression. "Even we Companions seldom head out without a Shield Brother."

"Oh, Divines preserve me. Fine," she huffed, tugging Jughead's reins and heading down the road that would eventually lead to Whiterun. "I have a friend in Rorikstead."

"Ysmir!" Mralki greeted her warmly when she walked into his inn. "It's been too long!"

"Hello, Mralki," she said, looking around. Mralki's inn was pretty much like any other; the low lighting, stone floor, and tables lining the side of the room while a half-trained bard played flute for what few people were drinking this time of day. "Is Erik about?"

"You're lucky; he just got back! Got a job this summer escorting silver shipments through the Reach." He walked over and handed her a bottle of ale—by long-standing custom, her first ale was on the house. "I was worried at first, but he was with several seasoned fighters, and by all accounts did well for himself. The Silverblood family even gave him a written recommendation!" The grin of the former soldier was full of pride for his son, still shadowed by concern. Ysmir smiled back, full of confidence. She had been instrumental in helping Erik put his life at risk, and she had always questioned it, but she would not burden the boy's father with that knowledge.

"I'm sure I'll get a chance to read it," she said, sliding onto a bench. "I take it he'll be back before too long?"

"He's helping remove that stubborn old stump in the middle of Cowflop farm's new field. I imagine they won't work long after dark," he said, eyeing the twins curiously.

"Mralki, these are my friends, Vilkas and Farkas of the Companions in Whiterun. We need to be parting ways here in Rorikstead, and they seem to think I need someone watching my back," the glance she gave them let Mralki know that she was a little miffed about that, but he smiled, shaking his head.

"Can't say I'm eager to see him leave again, but seeing as I know you can take care of yourself, and he always comes back from trips with you brimming with stories, I won't give him the usual lecture, should you decide to take him with you." Now he openly looked the twins up and down. "Companions, eh? Heard nothing but good about the Companions, and any friend of Ysmir is a friend of mine. First ale's on the house, or mead if you prefer."

"Ale," Farkas confirmed happily, slipping in next to Ysmir. Vilkas simply nodded and sat on her other side, waiting for Mralki to leave before speaking.

"This boy…" he began, and Ysmir groaned.

"Is a boy, Vil. I admit he might have had a bit of a fancy for me for a while, but…" she struggled to find a good way to explain and gave up. "If you're wolves, he's a puppy. A big, lovable, hound puppy that will one day be a big, valuable dog, but for now he's still just an affable lump of innocence. I'd sooner sleep with my little brother, had I one."

Farkas smirked, "Poor man," he muttered, but then Erik himself walked in the door, painfully glad to see her, and she never got to respond.

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"Companions! They were Companions?" Erik seemed a bit star-struck, and Ysmir was a little afraid he was going to turn right around and chase after the twins.

"Yes. They joined when they were very young," she told him, whacking him on the arm. Erik was up behind her on Jughead, and she wondered if she really should have done that, as he seemed to enjoy having his arms about her waist just a little too much. "I hope you aren't thinking about joining. You have talent, Erik, but the Companions are the best there is. You have a lot of practice to do if you want to join their ranks."

"Oh," he said, crestfallen. Ysmir winced, not having wanted to hurt his feelings, but she knew he wasn't ready for the Companions. For one thing, finding out they were werewolves would horrify him. For another…the Companions were called upon for many things, including those things no one else was able to handle. Before the Blades really started recruiting members, they were even called upon to defeat dragons. Ysmir didn't want Erik in those situations. Really, she wished he would find a girl, buy a house, and settle down as a Hold Guard. Only, she had seen a lot of dead guards in her day…

Life was complicated.

Some hours passed, and they stopped for midday to rest Jughead and get a bite to eat. The road was still relatively clear from Ysmir and the twins having recently come this way, and they had only had to stop once for a migrating frostbite spider. It was nearing full night, and they were looking for a likely campsite, when they were forced to stop again.

"Do you hear that?" Erik asked suddenly.

Ysmir pulled Jughead to a halt. Wind whistled through the trees, howled distantly over the rocks, but nothing else permeated the twilight gloom.

Then, faintly, she heard crying.

Dismounting, she readied a firebolt and crept forward, between the trees a ways. Erik wordlessly went around, circling so that any threat would be caught in a pincer between them. Ysmir almost grinned; he was learning.

A shallow cave was up ahead, and Ysmir frowned, glancing around outside it. A folded set of clothes was set beside a pool, as if someone had expected to return and need a bath right away. Taking out her dagger (of the Dragon Priest variety, for she enjoyed irony), she flipped open the black and red robes without touching them.

A black handprint adorned the center of the chest.

Ysmir let the cloth drop, interrupting the line of ants that had been creeping over the stump. Her brow furrowed, glancing at the water of the pond. Several small, white lumps could just barely be seen some distance in.

The crying stopped.

Ysmir looked up. Erik emerged from the brush screening the pool from the cave, carrying a crying, hiccupping child that tried to cling to him despite tied hands. "I can't get the knots undone, and my dagger won't fit under the ropes," he explained, placing the girl down on the stump with the clothes. He frowned and brushed the ants away, then awkwardly patted the girl on the shoulder.

"Ah," Ysmir said, kneeling before the child. "Are you alright?" she asked. The girl had a sweet face and some of the silkiest brown hair Ysmir had ever seen, and her movements, even hampered by the ropes, were surprisingly graceful.

"No!" she sobbed, and Erik looked down at her with so much sympathy Ysmir was afraid he might cry, too. "No I'm not alright! I'll never be alright again! The Dark Brotherhood killed my momma and papa, and then they took me captive!"

Erik looked shocked. "The Dark Brotherhood? Are they here now?" he asked, putting his hand on his sword and looking around.

The little girl shook her head. "N-no. I've been alone for days. The Khajiit that captured me left to fulfil another contract, but didn't come back. I think they were going to sell me into slavery!"

Ysmir nodded, "Right," she said, then rudely shoved the girl backward on the stump, dagger at her neck as astonishment flickered over the sprawled child's face, "Erik, go wait by the horse."

"Ysmir!" he yelped, aghast. "She's just a little girl!"

"No she's not," Ysmir replied, not taking her eyes off the un-child.

"What are you doing?" the little girl wailed, kicking weakly. "Let me up!"

"Ysmir!" Erik protested, trying to pull her off.

She sighed and eased back slowly, ready to encase the child in ice if she needed to. "Now, who are you, really?" she asked the girl; although she could guess, she wanted Erik to hear it.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" the child wailed, struggling into a sitting position and scrubbing angry tears from her cheeks.

"Don't. Just don't," Ysmir replied, shaking her head. "I traveled with the princess of the Volkihar vampires for over a year. I know one when I see one."

There was a pause, then the innocence left the round, sweet face to be replaced with a look of wicked intelligence. "What gave me away?" the girl asked, voice smooth and cool.

"Everything," Ysmir replied. "I hope you didn't let that Khajiit die just to lure me here."

The vampire tossed her head. "Of course not. She believed she could handle you. I thought otherwise, and followed. I told her you would kill her, but she was confident in her abilities."

"So you just let her go to her death. Some brotherhood," Ysmir muttered, then sighed, looking at the girl while she pondered her options. "What's your name?"

The girl shrugged, "Babette."

"And you've been an assassin how long?"

Babette smiled proudly, displaying glistening fangs. "Long enough."

Long enough not to have any family to want her back. Long enough to be a child in no more than body. The Dragonborn watched the pool for a few seconds, seeing tiny slaughterfish schooling around the edge. They got along fine with their siblings now, she knew, but when they got older and more crowded in the pool, they would devour each other. Things always grew more vicious with age. People were no different, whether their bodies grew with their minds or not. Darkness eclipsed the pool as she pressed her eyelids closed.

"Well, I'm not in the habit of killing children, no matter how old they are," Ysmir decided, opening her eyes and standing. "That doesn't mean I have to untie you. Come on, Erik," she turned, striding away from the little assassin and all she implied. It would have been a brilliant, probably perfect plan, to their way of thinking. Ysmir was known for taking in orphans now—the children from Honorhall Orphanage came to her house twice a year so the children could play in the lake and get out of Riften for a while. So sending an assassin that looked like a child? It had probably seemed foolproof.

"Are…are we just going to leave her?" Erik asked, subdued.

"What do you want me to do? Untie the vampiric assassin and have her follow us home?" she asked sarcastically.

"Well, she's a vampire, so shouldn't we..?"

The Dragonborn stopped and took a deep breath before turning back to her companion, "Can you kill her? Looking like that?" His silence was all the answer she needed, and she turned and mounted Jughead, putting on a Ring of Candlelight to combat the twilight gloom. "Come on. We'll ride through the rest of the night. I don't want to chance sleeping now."

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**Submitting chapter 13 on Friday the 13th...coincidence? Yeah, probably. Coincidence I had to do it a few times because the internet at my parents' deleted it? I think not!**

**Thank you once again to everyone who favorited and reviewed! You people make my day!**

**V: Thanks. ^_^ I love writing Miraak and Darva moments. It brings out a side of Miraak I'm not even sure he knew he had.**

**circassia: What a wonderful thing to say! Have a thing for villains, do you? I don't blame you. ;)**

**Spoilers: Cheese!**


	14. Chapter 14: Uncle Pelagius

The first thing she noticed when she arrived home, both she and Erik walking, exhausted, on either side of an equally tired Jughead, was that no one seemed to be around. It was midmorning, but no one was adding to the woodpile, or fishing in the lake. No small figures took advantage of the light in the tower to sew or read. No one milked the cow or practiced against the pells. Ysmir halted, eyes scanning the area around for any sign of threat, then raced to the house, adrenaline giving her another burst of energy. She skidded to a halt by the door and carefully crouched down, waving for Erik to follow her lead. He did, looking alarmed and doubtful, for he really was not the sneaking type.

Ysmir eased the door open and peeked in. Lydia leaned against the inner door to the dining area, arms across her chest, not ready to fight but certainly not relaxed. She rolled her eyes at something, stopping mid-way with a frown as she noticed the door cracked. Her expression eased when she saw it was Ysmir at the door and she joined them outside, her sculpted face still holding a sense of puzzled irritation. "I know you send me help, sometimes, Thane, but I would like a warning before you send another one like this."

"What?" Ysmir asked, completely unable to fathom what she meant.

"Your uncle. Crazy mage?" she waved her arms in an exaggerated parody of doing magic, but at Ysmir's continued dumbfoundment, Lydia continued with less certainty. "He knew a lot about you, even told some childhood stories. He arrived and declared he needed the staff back he had let you borrow. When I said you weren't home, he pulled it out of the wall. I assumed it was another one of those little caches you seem to install without telling me."

The Dragonborn was beginning to get a sick sense of recognition. "Did he…do anything with the staff?"

"Well, he turned a bunch of bandits into sturgeon, which was helpful but—" Lydia broke off as Ysmir rushed into the house.

"…once she discovered what the mushroom could do, she had to take some with her and oh, hoh! Here's yer mother."

Ysmir stared at the figure sitting on the table in front of her children, breathing hard and completely uncertain what to do. The children got up and swarmed her, as was normal when she returned home. Behind her, she could hear Erik and Lydia getting reacquainted as they brought up the rear.

"Mother, Uncle Pelagius turned a bunch of bandits into fish!" Blaise enthused, eyes shining. "Then he turned their horse into a sabercat, and it ate all of them!"

"Uncle _Pelagius,_ huh?" Ysmir asked, arching a brow at the visitor, who grinned charmingly.

"I needed my Staff," he said, brandishing the Wabbajack. "And my hipbone, if you still have it. What use is a staff without a hipbone!" he crowed, waggling his eyebrows at Lydia.

Ysmir groaned. "It's in my house in Markarth," she informed him. She had just returned; she fervently hoped the Mad God was not going to insist she go right back out and get it.

"Ah, no matter. These darling, bright-eyed little buggers have been plying my temper with food. And I do love to eat! And I love eyes, especially bright ones!" He waved his arms as he talked, resulting in the Wabbajack knocking over a candlestick and whisking a plate off the table.

"Careful, Uncle Pelagius!" Alesan cried as he ducked.

Sheogorath turned to fix him with a sharp look, and Ysmir's heart skipped a beat. But then he broke into a wide grin once again. "Cheeky! Telling me what to do! You just want to puff up his cheeks and fill them with acorns! Then rip them off and use them as a sack."

"Children, Mother has not seen She—I mean Uncle Pelagius in a long time and I'm sure you have chores to do," Ysmir said, giving them all a stern look.

"But Uncle Pelagius was telling us a story," Blaise whined.

"Now!" she snapped, and the children exchanged startled glances and reluctantly walked off.

Runa handed Sheogorath a plate of goat cheese wedges and apple slices with a rueful grin. "Perhaps some other time," she told him.

"Oh, you're thirteen; I'll be seeing ye off and on for the next four years," he told her with a grin. "Puberty is maddening."

Runa gave him a bemused look, then smiled and shook her head, heading off. Ysmir relaxed slightly, and finally was able to greet the Mad God with a cautious grin. "Well, it has been a long time, Sheogorath," she said, making Lydia blanch and Erik fall into a chair with a thud.

He hopped off the table, carrying the platter and munching on some cheese, "Time is an artificial construct, Granddaughter. It can be tricky to understand. Sometimes, when ye think you are out of time, you find you have eternity. And sometimes, when ye think you have eternity, you find someone stole your sweetroll."

The Dragonborn shook her head, but she couldn't help but smile at him. "You haven't changed."

"But I have. Or haven't I? I'm a Daedra; we like change. And hopscotch!"

"Dare I ask what you were telling my children?" she asked, pouring him a glass of wine and offering it. He poured it on his head where it didn't actually seem to get him wet, or indeed, touch him at all, and grinned, then scowled.

"A lively tale of one little girl that fell down a rabbit hole. Loved mushrooms. And tea parties. Oh, the tea parties I had with that woman! And the hats! Needed the hats, mind. It's hard to have a tea party when Falmer are filling you with arrows."

Erik shuddered, "I hate Falmer!" he apparently couldn't stop himself from saying.

"They hate you too," Sheogorath assured him kindly, then continued. "Fell down a rabbit hole and got stuck in a Dwarven store room. The dwarves laughed at her, but when they came to let her out, they vanished. She called and called, but all that happened was her skin turned black. Lovely girl, hair red as yours. Anyway, the automatons came and tried to take her head, and the Falmer came and tried to eat her, so I put her in my pocket and took her home. I brought you a present," he said suddenly, swinging to look at Darva as she walked through, carefully holding a jug of water between two small hands, face creased with concentration. She jumped and Erik caught the jug, frowning as he hefted it, while Sheogorath presented Darva with a small object like a conjuror presenting a pretty girl with a flower. "Ysgramor's salad fork!"

Giving him an uncertain look, Darva took the present uncertainly. "This is a spoon," she told him, confused.

"It goes with his soup spoon—yer mum has that," he said, patting her on the head. "Now, on with the chores! What happens without chores, eh? Chaos, that's what! Go play!"

"I'll help with this one," Erik said with a frown. "This is much too heavy for a little girl," he scolded her, carrying the pot for her.

"She'll have all the boys carrying pots for her!" Sheogorath confided in a loud whisper. "Pots and torches and pitchforks! Oh, the havoc of a pretty face! I love it!"

Ysmir poured herself some brandy, even though she knew she needed her wits about her when dealing with the Mad God—but chances were he was trying to take them anyway, so at least this way she was likely to get them back. "So that's all you want? The Wabbajack and the hipbone?"

He frowned. "Ye've been seeing other Deadra," he accused, and she sputtered, nearly spitting out the wine in her mouth. "Not that I minded old Hermy—he used to send the Shivering Isles some new denizens every few years—but this new one…"

Ysmir jumped up. "Care to take this to the tower?" she asked him, extending a hand toward the stairs.

"Tower? I love towers! People jump from towers!" he enthused, loudly. Ysmir felt dizzy for a second and found herself on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, overlooking the northern Whiterun Plains. Her stomach lurched, but this wasn't the first time the Mad God had decided to take her on a trip via teleportation. He liked to make it as jarring as possible to see if the poor mortal turned him- or herself inside out. She sighed, glancing about and waved weakly to one of the amazed pair of hold guards staring at them, glad the Steward wasn't out here.

"Men, this is Sheogorath; please back away slowly and keep people from investigating," she told them, hoping against hope they would listen.

"Thane," one of them began, but then Sheogorath spoke up.

"Harik! How's yer uncle?" he asked.

Harik couldn't drag his partner away fast enough.

"Huh. Didn't want to talk?" he mused, gazing after the men. "Ah, well. We have things to discuss, I guess."

"So Miraak really did become the new Daedric Prince of Forbidden Knowledge?" Ysmir asked, sinking into one of the chairs at the long table set on the porch. Sheogorath offered her something from the platter he still held, and she took an apple slice and munched it thoughtfully. From the door, she heard a slight scuffle, and glanced over to see the guards there furiously talking and gesturing to the pair. She hoped they didn't do anything stupid.

"He is. How he is, I don't know. The other Daedra don't know. They angry, they're confused. I think I might like this Miraak." He popped the last piece of cheese in his mouth and frowned down at the platter, then glanced back at the door with a worryingly calculating expression. "I wonder if they have any brain pie?"

"No one is volunteering," she told him sharply.

"Watch yer tone, me gal—I still need a new skipping rope," he informed her, then seemed to turn serious, something she had never seen in him. She had seen him jovial, and murderous, and jovially murderous and murderously jovial, but never serious. He looked…sane, and it disturbed her more than she cared to admit. "Even mad men have family, Ysmir. It's what connects us all when nothing else does. When wits go, and the ones ye were born to leave, I become family. My subjects become family. I watched ye from your first breath in that madhouse; the last of my descendants, the last of what I was. I watched your first kill, your first love, laughed when ye murdered that man they married ye to and smiled with pride when ye picked your first pocket. I watched ye sneak into Skyrim and awaken under Alduin's gaze. I watched ye grow. Sometimes, I helped it along."

She stared at him, mouth dry. What was he saying?

"Miraak…he has no family. It's been too long for him to remember what that felt like. Like you, he was disassociated from those around him by his dragon blood. Unlike you, he never overcame it. I cannot trust a man with no sense of family, Granddaughter. But he is in our family now, whether we like it or no."

Ysmir stood, looking at him uncertainly. His face had changed, subtly, the hair becoming darker, the eyes softer. She saw traces of her own face in those features, and she wondered if perhaps she was truly beginning to suffer madness.

Sheogorath's arm lifted suddenly, an arrow appearing right next to his head. The features snapped back into the familiar face of the Mad God, and they both turned to where the fletched end of the arrow pointed, where Aela crouched behind one of the giant mechanisms that would hold a dragon. Apparently, the hold guards had called in a Companion. "Ye really shouldn't have done that," Sheogorath said softly, and Aela froze, her expression one of absolute terror, "Enjoy the view."

The woman vanished.

"What did you do?!" she demanded, frantic.

"She attacked me," he said, unruffled as he turned his face to the sky. "Ah, there she is now."

Ysmir followed his gaze upward, eyes wide in horror as a tiny dot appeared in the sky above Whiterun Plains, growing just a bit bigger with every moment. "No," she whispered, then turned to him, "Please don't do this. She's my friend; she probably just heard we were up here and got worried about me."

"She was protecting you," he agreed, shading his eyes with his hand, smiling. "Very commendable. The nerve!"

Ysmir yanked him around until his gaze met hers, not bothering to hide a bit how frantic she was. "Please!"

Sheogorath examined her face for a moment, and sighed. "You're no fun, sometimes," he complained. Raising his hand again, he snapped his fingers. A sound like a deep bell came from them.

Aela appeared a few feet above the balcony floor and landed on her rear.

"Aela!" Ysmir cried, falling to her knees beside her friend and throwing her arms around her, nearly sobbing with relief.

Sheogorath knelt beside them, and Aela scooted back a pace, eyeing him like he might bite. It was a possibility. "No attacking Daedric Princes," he scolded, brandishing a finger at her. "I haven't gotten into a fight with Hircine in a while, and I might decide it sounds entertaining. He doesn't like it when I drive his pets mad. Cheese?" he held out the plate, which was inexplicably filled with cheese pieces once again, whimsically carved into little wolves.

Aela shook her head violently, although whether to promise not to do that again, or whether she was refusing the cheese wasn't completely clear.

"Now," the Mad God said cheerfully as he got to his feet. "I need my hipbone. On to Markarth, both of you! And don't buy anything at the meat stall! Or, better yet, do," he declared, and Ysmir felt dizzy again for a moment, and they found themselves in the City of Stone.

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**As always, let me know what you think! Hope you enjoyed! **

**I adore Sheogorath-I loved writing him. He's a total change of pace from anyone. I can only hope I did him justice. **


	15. Chapter 15: Happy Hunting

Babette stomped into the Sanctuary, lost in thought, passing right by a startled Astrid and Arnbjorn, down the stairs and over to Lis's pen where she threw herself onto a chair, watching the spider shuffle about and thinking, deeply.

The Dragonborn had known what she was. Right off the bat, all the things that made her kills drop their guard was gone. She'd had Babette tied, forced down, and with a weapon to her throat. The vampire was not entirely sure she would have been able to get away at all, let alone unscathed.

It was…unexpected.

"So the dragon walks Tamriel no more," Nazir began blithely from behind her.

"No, she does," Babette corrected him irritably, not taking her eyes off Liz. Someone had fed the spider recently; the latest bundle of spidersilk still writhed and groaned occasionally. From the sound, Babette thought it might be an orc.

"You didn't kill her?" he asked, a frown in his voice. "But you've returned," he added, and Babette could not tell if he was surprised that she had come back with a mission uncompleted, or that she had come back at all.

"She saw right through me," the vampire said, and left it at that. "I thought she would be like the others—well, maybe not like all the others. She would want to _care_ for me, to take me home to her little family of castoffs. But she knew what I was—even a bit of who I was—from the moment she saw me. She's smart. And she's lucky. No, worse than lucky," she ranted, hopping to her feet and beginning to pace. Gabriella walked by and paused, watching the seeming child as she processed her mark aloud.

"Twenty-seven assassins, including me. _Twenty-seven,_ Nazir. That's not just luck, and that's not just skill. They were all very different. They had different techniques, different levels of skill. Some of them had more kills behind them than you have birthdays. On top of that, she's fighting dragons, dealing with bandits, being called on by jarls to fight groups of ruffians and giants. She's clearing tombs. That's not just skill, Nazir."

"You've said that," he told her, watching her with concern on his face. She paused, and smiled, touched at the concern. This was what a family was; they cared about each other. They wanted to see the other succeed. "If it's not skill; what is it?"  
"The Dragonborn is divinely protected," she announced.

Nazir very courteously did not burst out laughing, though she could tell he wanted to.

"Think about it. Think on all she has done so far. She was destined to defeat that Black Dragon, so all the things she did before that were merely to prepare her for that. No matter what she did, she could not die, because she had a destiny to fulfil. The Divines _wouldn't let her die_ before she had."

"But she did that. Now she should be killable as anyone else," he said, humoring her as he took the chair she had vacated.

"Maybe. But that level of skill she gained while unkillable? While her life was essential? That still needs to be contended with." Babette ceased her pacing and stood, one hand to her chin as she thought. "I need to think up a new strategy."  
"You're not giving this up then?" Nazir pressed. Babette's withering look was all the answer he needed.

"I'm going to go make up some potions. If you all need something, let me know beforehand, because I'm going for an extended campaign," she announced, heading off toward the Alchemy lab.

"An extended campaign to what?" the Redguard called after her.

"To find what keeps the Dragonborn from dying like a proper person. Once I know what she lives for, I'll know how to kill her."

"Happy hunting," he called.

Babette grinned, barring her teeth. "Oh, it will be . This is going to be more fun than I've had in a long time."

* * *

Vlindrel Hall was just as she remembered it; dark and slightly damp, with the hum of dwarven machinery echoing faintly through the carved stone walls. Argis the Bulwark had leapt to his feet when he saw her, surprise written in every line of him. "My Thane!" he said.

Ysmir paused, then grinned. "I thought you didn't like to read," she said, nodding to one of her books in his hands.

He flushed, "I don't," he said, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking over her shoulder.

Ysmir turned, but there was only Aela. Then she remembered that they had not met yet. "Oh, sorry. Argis the Bulwark, this is Aela the Huntress. Aela, Argis is my housecarl here in Markarth. Argis, Aela is my friend, and a member of the Companions in Whiterun."

"The Companions?" he asked, sounding a bit like she had taken that book out of his hands and whacked him in the skull with it.

"Yes, the Companions, just like Farkas," she repeated, "You remember Farkas, right? Big, talks like you, drank you under the table…" she reminded him, walking past the big man and frowning. "Are you feeling alright? You look a little…flushed," she raised her hand and felt his forehead, and he seemed to come back to himself, shaking his head and stepping back from her touch.

"Yes, fine. There's just been…a bit of something going around," he said, returning his gaze to her.

"I'll make up a few Cure Disease potions before I go," she said decisively, heading into the inner rooms. "I'm only going to be here for a few days. I'm rather ill-equipped to make a journey, I'm afraid."

"Then why did you?" he asked sensibly, he and Aela following as she went to her room. Aela seemed to be admiring the weapons on the plaques that Ysmir had added, Vlindrel Hall not having enough displays (or lighting) for her tastes. Truly, she disliked the feeling of living in a Dwemer ruin. The place needed windows, not just ventilation shafts. Argis seemed to like it well enough, and was content to stay here and keep the hall up, going out with the jarl's soldiers to raid Foresworn camps to keep in shape. Sometimes she wondered if she should tell him to go get a dog. It couldn't be healthy, being cooped up in this place all the time.

Ysmir paused digging mid-way through the chest at the base of the bed in the master bedroom. "Do you remember when I found that big white jewel in a bandit's camp and we had to go traipsing through the Temple of Meridia, fighting off oily black ghosts?"

"Like that?" he surmised, leaning against the door.

"Like that," she confirmed, sighing.

"Didn't you say you were done with Daedra after that?" he asked, and Aela snickered.

"The Daedra either weren't listening, or they were, and thought that was hilarious," Ysmir told him. "I need you to go out and find a courier," she added, going over to the table and penning a quick note to Lydia, explaining roughly what had happened. "Give them this, to go to Lydia in Lakeview Manor in Falkreath Hold," she doodled a little map for the courier as well. "I'll pay him double to leave immediately, and triple to make it his top priority."

Argis whistled low, "You must have been taken away in a hurry, then."

She rolled her eyes as Aela muttered, "You have no idea."

"How's Lucia?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I sort of miss her running about the place." The wistful tone made Ysmir smile slightly, and Aela to examine the man anew.

"She's fine. I would bring them here to visit, if it weren't for how many there are, the number of Foresworn we'd have to cross just to get here, and the fact that I'm pretty sure Blaise would get himself thrown in Cidhna Mine before the week was out." The big Nord cracked a smile at that, having met Blaise briefly before Ysmir decided to settle on Lakeview once and for all and stop dragging her kids around Skyrim three times a year.

"Maybe I should come out there sometime," he suggested, and Ysmir turned to look at him again, wondering if Sheogorath hadn't already visited.

"Argis, you love the Reach. Never wanted to leave it—ever—if I recall."

"I'm bored," he admitted. "And I miss the mites. Markarth isn't a great place for children, my Thane. They're all kept close. You don't see them running around like elsewhere."

She just watched him frankly for a long moment. "How do you feel about werewolves?" she finally asked. Aela's jaw dropped open.

Argis shrugged uncomfortably. "I suppose I might be able to kill one, if it attacked me."

"No, I mean what if it didn't attack you? What if it, actually, was quite a good neighbor?" she insisted, and had the chance to see him utterly flabbergasted. She hadn't seen that look on his face since he discovered his new Thane was not only the physical opposite of the burly warrior he expected, but a mage. Then again the first time he saw her Shout. "Could you live with friendly werewolves about, and peaceful, deer-eating vampires nearby, and dragons coming to visit? Oh, and a Khajiit. One allowed inside."

"I…" Argis's jaw worked but nothing came out.

"There are dangers, of course. Slaughterfish in the lake, necromancers coming to the alter we tore out (and extremely unhappy about that), Thalmor heading down the road to an old Talos shrine and stopping for a stab along the way, bandits, wolves, giants that are occasionally friendly and only want to trade for a cow…"

Aela actually snickered at the look on his face, but that seemed to snap him out of whatever stupor he had fallen into. "You keep your children in that environment?" he asked, appalled.

Ysmir shrugged, having expected the question, "Those werewolves I mentioned? They don't like the marauding bandits either. There's a lot of wilderness in Skyrim, Argis. Sometimes you just need to roll with what you find, rather than oppose it. Besides, you've met Serana; you know just because something is reputed to be bad, does not mean it is inherently evil."

Argis's jaw snapped shut, a thoughtful look on his face. He had met Serana. He had tried to kill Serana. And the vampire had bard-charmed him three ways from Turdas. Honestly, Ysmir was half-convinced Serana could out-talk Miraak, who had swayed a bunch of people angry at him for enslaving them during their sleep into serving him.

"Why don't you go get that courier and think it over?" Aela suggested, putting a hand on his arm. Argis looked at it, then her, and nodded with a little grunt and walked off. The Huntress watched him leave, leaning around the doorframe to do so. "Good warrior, is he?" she asked casually.

"Good enough that I wouldn't sneeze at the opportunity to have him out at Lakeview, with everything that's been going on," she answered, tugging another mage robe out from under a set of orcish armor and falling over backwards.

Aela laughed and helped her up. "You look just like Darva when you get that expression on your face," she teased.

"What expression?" Ysmir fumed, raking her hair back off her face, where it had flung as she fell.

"That mulish, affronted look that something isn't going just how you want it to," the Huntress replied, teasingly poking her in the ribs. "Mind if I snag him?"

"For the Companions? Go ahead. I think he's getting bored out of his mind here. He was reading _Notes on Racial Phylogeny_, for Talos's sake." Ysmir glanced at her, wondering when her friend would collect her thoughts enough to ask about Sheogorath, but it seemed she was sufficiently distracted for the moment.

Finally she reached the bottom of the chest (and found a particularly stunning sapphire pendant while she was at it) and pulled out the box with Pelagius's hipbone. Divines only knew when he would come collect the thing; she'd probably be carrying it around for months. She also found Ysgramor's Soup Spoon and the Book of Fate, which still was blank. Out of curiosity, she handed it to Aela, who opened it and frowned, then flushed.

"Funny," she said, slamming the book shut and thrusting it at Ysmir, who took it with raised eyebrows and watched the Huntress stomp out of the room.

"Huh," she said, leafing through the empty pages. She recalled what the Augur of Dunlain had said about "seeing" Darva, and wondered what he would make of the book. She set the entire box aside to take with them, intending to send the book to the College. "Wonder what has her so upset?"

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**Hello, everybody. I kind of this of this as an interlude chapter (as it, it gets you from one point to the other and isn't as interesting as other chapters), but I hope you like it anyway.**


	16. Chapter 16: Foresworn and a Chicken

"So why did the guards come running down to Jorrvaskr bleating about a Daedric Prince on the Balcony?"

Ysmir glanced at Aela out of the corner of her eye. She'd been waiting for the question, and apparently the Huntress had only waited until the Markarth Housecarl was out of earshot to ask it. Argis had ranged ahead, checking the road for Foresworn and wildlife before his Thane traversed it. He was being especially dedicated in his duty, and Ysmir wondered if he had really been that bored or if there wasn't another motivation for his exemplary service.

"Because there was a Daedric Prince on the Balcony, obviously," she said, her tone intentionally preoccupied as she glanced at the hills above them. A goat glanced back at her and bleated. "And apparently, because they don't listen worth a damn," she added in a mutter as thunder rumbled to the west.

"What were you doing with Sheogorath, Ysmir?" Aela asked, not having it. "Please tell me he doesn't want you to be his champion."

Ysmir sighed. "Sheogorath…he has a different interest in me than the other Daedra. He doesn't want a champion. Doesn't need one."

Aela stopped, catching Ysmir by the arm and turning her so they were face to face, catching her when the slightly shorter woman slipped on the damp stone of the road. The mossy cobbles made a squelching sound under her leather sole. "So what interest does he have in you?"

A slight smile tugged at the corners of the Dragonborn's mouth. "You're just determined to get all my secrets out of me, aren't you?" she asked, then sighed when the Companion's expression tightened. "Just after the Oblivion Crisis something happened in the Shivering Isles. I'm not entirely clear on what. During that time Sheogorath and his human champion…merged, or something." Aela's eyes widened in disbelief, lips parting as her jaw dropped, and Ysmir gave a slight scoff. She was rather fuzzy on the details of that specific incident, since what little the Mad God had been willing to say on the subject had come to her around bites of cheese. "Daedric interference must be in my blood, or something, because that human champion was my ancestor—at least according to him. He left a lover and child behind that he never returned to, but…he kept watch over them."

That had been the part that convinced her, that day so long ago when she sat across from the Mad God in the mind of a dead, crazed ruler. The strange, matter-of-fact tone as Sheogorath described the horror of being taken over, his mind completely eclipsed by another personality. Whoever her ancestor had been, it hadn't appeared to bother him in the least, but Ysmir had been horrified at the thought. She shuddered, looking away as her friend continued to look down at her in disbelief.

"Truth or madness," she finally said, taking up their interrupted journey, "he feels rather proprietary about me, and now, about Darva. We're all that's left of that human champion."

"What did he want?" Aela queried after a long silence. The weather was quickly turning from overcast to miserable, and Ysmir glared at the sky as a chilly, misting rain descended and instantly dampened their clothing. Her mail seemed to double in weight.

"He came for the Wabbajack—his artifact—and Pelagius's hipbone, which he gave me a long time ago," Ysmir imparted, hand going automatically to feel the protrusion of that particular object from the bottom of her pack. "Really, I think he came because he wanted to talk about Miraak. He knows he's Darva's father, and—now that Miraak has taken Hermaeus Mora's place—I think he's worried."

"I don't blame him; I'm worried," Aela muttered crossly. "And now I'm even more worried. The last thing anyone needs is two Daedric Princes claiming familial rights. Especially a child."

"I…I think he feels bad," Ysmir revealed hesitantly. "He made no secret that he didn't like how I was raised, but for some reason he left me there. As if…something…told him it needed to happen."

Aela gave her a sharp glance. "You told Skjor you were raised in an orphanage."

"That was before I knew werewolves could scent lies," she stated, catching Aela off-guard. "I don't know why he never called me out on it."

There was another long pause. "When he first told me about you he said he thought you'd had a hard time of it."

"Curious, Aela?" she asked, glancing at her friend.

"Yes," the Huntress admitted with some exasperation, then regretted it as a shadowed, almost hunted look crossed the Dragonborn's face.

"I did spend some time in an orphanage, but I was…raised…by my grandfather, and…Let's just say my mother's father made Grelog the Kind look as if she deserved the name, and leave it at that," Ysmir finally said. She had been thinking of telling the twins and Aela of her upbringing more and more often lately, but couldn't quite get herself to do so just yet. Even Inigo didn't know the whole story. The only one who did, ironically enough, was Miraak. Well, Miraak and Hadvar, but the Imperial soldier that had helped her escape Helgen had actually guessed what she was, rather than been told. She had always said he was smarter than people gave him credit for.

A raindrop slid down her forehead from her hairline, and she decided the rain was making her melancholy. A change of subject was in order. Or, rather, a shift back to the original subject was in order. "So what possessed you to fire an arrow at a Daedric Prince?"

Aela shook her head, letting the subject of her upbringing slide for now. "He looked like a man. I thought Daedra would look like…well…Daedra. That he would have purple skin or horns or…something. I thought the guards were mistaken, and you were being held by a strange mage. Well, stranger than normal mage."

Ysmir shook her head. "And Vilkas says I'm reckless."

"You _are_ reckless," Aela retorted, exasperated. "I think you've given him grey hair a time or two."

"Well you definitely gave me some," Ysmir replied, glancing up alertly when Argis came jogging back toward them through the fog-like downpour, looking no less alert for being waterlogged.

"Trouble ahead," he declared.

She just shrugged. "There always is."

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* * *

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"I hate Foresworn," Ysmir complained, running a hand through her damp hair irritably. Below them, the three raiders that held the bridge spotted them and pulled out their weapons. Beside her, she heard Aela limber up her bow, cursing about the wet, and the scrape of Argis's sword leave the scabbard. "Stay put a moment," she instructed Argis, then proceeded to litter the ground before them with fire runes, managing to place one practically under the foot of the closest attacker.

Aela glowered at her as the man burst into flames, running around in circles as the licks of light and heat consumed the fur armor he sported. "Sometimes, it's hard to get any practice in when you're around."

Ysmir shrugged. "There are more of them," she pointed to a mine entrance just above the cottage that sat perfectly placed at the end of the bridge. Foresworn, attracted by the noise and the screams of their fellows, flowed out like angry hornets. "I'll sit back and watch, if you'd prefer."

"Actually, I would," the Huntress declared with a grin, lining up and rapid-firing arrows. Three Foresworn fell in as many seconds. Argis gave her a savage grin of approval before racing down under her cover fire, hopping over the remaining fire runes.

Ysmir glanced around, spotting a rock overhang that would afford a little shelter from the rain, at least. Finding it somewhat dry, she leaned against the cliff under it and took out a waterskin, taking a sip and grimacing. The water in Markarth always tasted of metal. So did blood. It wasn't a connection she wanted to dwell on for very long. Pouring out the water, she glanced up at the sky, wondering why, if it was going to rain at all, it wasn't in a way that would at least let her refill her waterskin.

Argis ducked under the swing of the first Foresworn, bringing his arms up so the blade slid across the belly of his attacker as he passed. Then he spun, taking out a duel-wielding woman with so little effort the girl's ancestors had to be embarrassed. He slipped a little in the wet, but regained his footing quickly enough.

Ysmir looked down as something moved near her foot. "Oh, hello," she told the terrified chicken.

The Bulwark smashed his elbow into a man's face, crushing his nose into his skull but getting pierced by the short horns that jutted from the helmet. An arrow lodged itself into his shield, and he glanced up in time to see the archer fall backward, an ebony shaft sprouting from her chest. Five more Reachmen rose behind her. With another grin, Argis launched himself into the attack, water flicking off his armor as he moved.

"I like this one," Aela called to Ysmir calmly, her gaze frankly admiring.

"He's good at what he does," Ysmir agreed, using Kyne's Peace on the chicken and wrapping it in a linen shroud she had picked up in a tomb somewhere. She normally didn't bother with the things, but she'd needed cushioning for the hipbone. "And he can hold his mead, as you can tell."

For some reason the comment made Aela flush, but Ysmir had only meant that the two had traded increasingly incoherent war stories until well into the night while the mage was trying to sleep. "Are you going to try to recruit him?" she asked, rather than embarrass the Huntress further.

"I'll talk to the twins about it, but I think we can get him to come around, especially if you release him from service."

"Have you ever tried to release a housecarl from service?" Ysmir asked, rolling her eyes. "Rayya only stared even more intently than usual when I suggested she might be happier if she found something else to do. Or stare at."

Aela chuckled. "Aventus swears she wasn't giving him nightmares," she offered, watching a Foresworn dart past Argis and charge them, then shooting him in the knee so that he fell face-first on one of Ysmir's runes.

"I don't care if she was giving him nightmares or not," Ysmir exclaimed, "She was giving me the heebe-jibees."

"Is that a mage term?" Aela asked.

"No, I picked it up from Uncle Pelagius," Ysmir mocked. "It's going to take forever to get home at this rate."

"I still need to get back to Jorrvaskr," the Huntress agreed. "Well, if you're in that much of a hurry, why don't you cast Fear on these lily-livers and we'll be on our way."

"Even if I didn't muck up every spell in the Alteration school Argis would chase just them," she groaned, starting down the hill as the last fire rune exploded when a Foresworn arrow hit it. Ysmir absently wondered what the archer had been aiming at. "Argis," she called, and saw him glance at her momentarily, "Duck!"

The housecarl immediately dropped to the ground as Ysmir Shouted _"Ven Gar Nos!"_ A whirlwind sprang up and lifted the remaining Reachmen from the ground, tumbling them about its dust-strewn center before flinging them into whatever unfortunate object happened to be nearby. Ysmir ducked a bucket that it flung at her. "I swear that _thu'um_ has a sense of humor," she muttered crossly. "That always happens. And it's always a bucket. Did you even see a bucket down there? I didn't."

Aela shrugged as both women reached Argis and, as one, reached down to haul him to his feet. No mean feat with a six foot Nord in armor that probably weighed as much as a pony. "So," he panted, looking around, "are we staying here tonight?"

"Nah. Plenty of daylight left for more tedious walking," Ysmir said. "Though we can loot the place, if you'd like. I think I still have a bit of shelf space."

A roar from the skies halted that notion, eclipsing even the thunder that rumbled almost constantly now.

"Or…we could fight a dragon then stay the night," Argis suggested.

"No," Ysmir countered, shading her eyes to look up at the beast. "A dragon attack is actually pretty convenient, right now."

Aela and Argis exchanged looks, then ducked behind the stone railing of the bridge as dragon fire licked over them. Ysmir held her ground, a globe-shaped ward flickering about her. That was a Thalmor invention, the spherical wards, meant to give them an edge in battle when surrounded by enemies. She wasn't supposed to have learned them, but she hadn't been entirely friendless as a child—there had been a few people who wanted to see her survive to adulthood. Briefly, she wondered if she should teach the wards to Colette in Winterhold, but dismissed the notion for now, gazing keenly at the dragon. There were only a few types of dragons that came, attracted to her _thu'um_, anymore. The first were Alduin's old supporters, those who wished revenge. The next were those wishing to gain power by managing to kill her. The third though, if this dragon was the third kind…

_"Dovahkiin! Meyz veyl ahrk luft dii uld!"_

A slow grin slid over her features. It was the third.

Ysmir walked to the center of the bridge, waited until the dragon hovered to Shout at her, then released her _thu'um_. _"Gol Hah Dov!"_

The dragon landed meekly before her, eyes wide._ "Zu'u krentar,"_ he said, voice at least an octave higher than most dragons. He was about a third smaller, and under the darkening effect of the rain was quite a few shades lighter, as well.

Ysmir crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot, "Do your parents know you're out here, _goraan gein?"_

The dragon cringed, jaw dropping just slightly and head retreating toward the body as his neck arched. Argis piped up from behind them with an incredulous, "That's a _baby_ dragon?" which couldn't have helped the dragonling's pride any. It winced, shifting its wings awkwardly.

"Worse," Ysmir called, "what age group do you know who yells things like 'come forth and taste my might' to lure others into fighting?"

_"Dreh ni wiif zey! Zu'u los sahrot!"_ the dragon cried, sounding a bit like he was whining.

"Sure you are," Ysmir replied, patting him on the snout. "Speak human, please; I'm not that versed in the Dragon Tongue." Battle phrases, mostly. Things that had been yelled at her a lot.

"It is _difficult."_ Now the dragon was definitely whining.

"Now, do your parents know you're out here?" she repeated, and the dragonling sighed. "No, then. I suppose they also heard my _thu'um_ and decided not to attack me?" At the dragon's cautious nod, she turned to her companions and grinned. "All right, you two. Come make yourselves comfortable; we're riding the sulky adolescent home!"

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**Ugh. Been sick this week, only I have no idea what with. In better news, before that, we had our first houseguests at our new place! I made custard for the first time, which turned out great, especially for having to replace milk with soy milk in the recipe.**

**Starting job hunting. If I could find a place that needed a full-time graphic designer, that would be awesome, but I'm probably going to have to settle for something else for now. Honestly, everywhere either says I'm too qualified to work there or that I don't have enough job experience! -_-' Need to sell a book...**

**Thank you theta117 for your review! And thank you to my new followers! You guys make this worth it.**


	17. Chapter 17: The Girl on the Ridge

"…so when that happens, you give them flowers, or you run and hide for a very long time, because women do not forget," Inigo told the two boys solemnly.

Aventus glanced at Ma'Rakha, who shrugged. "Uncle Inigo, why are you telling us this?" the boy asked, finally, the question that had been on the tip of his tongue all afternoon.

The blue Khajiit smiled, "Because you are thirteen now, and Lydia asked me to tell you what it means to become a man."

"It means I'm supposed to hide from girls when they're angry? I already know that," Aventus huffed.

"Then you are well on your way to survival," Inigo assured him. "Now, my son, it is time to learn how to use your claws."

Ma'Rakha looked at the little retractable needles at the ends of his fingers with bemusement. Aventus took that as his cue to flee the premises. He met Darva coming down the hill across the road from Pinewatch, like she normally did, looking very happy. Briefly, he wondered what it was she did up there, but he, like she, sometimes felt the need to be alone, and he figured he owed his little sister that much. Especially if he didn't want her seeking out and disturbing the places he went to in order to be alone.

Curiosity piqued, however, he waited until she passed and jogged up the hill she had just come down, finding a waterfall that went further up the mountain and a stream that flowed down into a deep little pool near a swath of green grass that came right up against a sheer cliff face. It looked like there had been hunters camped here, once, but they were long gone. Something glinted in the dirt, and he kicked at it with his toe until a shoe buckle came out, rusted with age and water.

Aventus picked up the buckle and looked around. This could be where Darva spent her time, even though it looked relatively undisturbed. There were flowers everywhere, and half of them were picked off. With a sigh, the boy walked down the rocky stream to the pool, noting by the eggs in the bottom that it would be a very bad place to swim, despite the relative peace of the place. He wondered if he could talk Inigo into getting rid of the slaughterfish quietly, so that it could be swimmable. That way, Blaise and Alesan wouldn't know about it either, which would make it doubly attractive to the girls.

The boy glanced around, scratching his head. The day was relatively warm, despite the cloud cover, and the pool was making him long for a bath. The other boys told him that he smelled more, lately, when he sweat, and he wished he could ask one of the Papas about that, but they were off doing Companion work. Just his luck, he supposed.

Turning, he began making his way down the hill, when something new caught his eye as his gaze passed over a copse of brush. He bent, digging a little near the base of a group of thorns, doing his best not to get scratched until whatever it was finally broke free of the wiry roots that held it. His eyebrows rose as he lifted it to the light: It was a gold necklace. It might have some kind of phrase engraved on it, but the dirt was caked on too thick. He rose, heading back to the stream to wash it off, when he heard a sound both familiar and strange. It was a girl, humming. While he was familiar with girl's humming, he didn't recognize the voice. Frowning, he climbed the hill again to see a Breton about his brothers' age picking flowers alongside the pool.

The girl paused, wiping her forehead with her arm and glancing at the pool, lips pursed. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision, and put her basket down, sitting on the soft grass and taking off her shoes.

Realizing what she was thinking, Aventus hurried up the hill. "Don't go in there!" he cried, and the girl jumped with a little squeak, shoe still in her hand. "Slaughterfish spawn in that pool!"

The girl peered more closely at the water. "That's stupid of them," she noted, glancing around, "There's nowhere for them to go when they get big." Aventus sighed, glad she wasn't arguing with him or demanding proof the way his sister's sometimes did. The girl glanced at him again and smiled, and he blushed, noting that she was really pretty. That glance didn't make her look Blaise's age anymore; it added at least two years. "Thank you. You saved my toes."

"You're welcome," the boy managed, throttling down his blushes. Something digging into his palm cured him of his sudden affliction of the face, and he glanced down to see the pendant, and quickly stooped to rinse it in the stream.

"What's that you have there?" the girl asked, interested. She leaned forward so that her head was nearly colliding with his, every once in a while reaching out to help him brush off a flake of mud or two. Finally, the last bit came off, revealing a shining ruby right in the center, surrounded by a swirling pattern that was probably what had fooled him into thinking it had writing on it. The gem caught what scattered light managed to filter through the clouds, sending bright sparks of scarlet dancing over their hands and faces. "It's so pretty…" she breathed, and he glanced up to see a splay of crimson across her eyes, which shined in admiration.

Impulsively, Aventus shoved it into her hands. "You should have it," he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other.

She looked shocked, "This looks way too valuable for you to just give it away," she protested, hands cradling the pendant.

"I just found it," he replied, watching a bit of moss get swept over the stones, one at a time in rapid succession. "Besides it…it matches your eyes," he muttered, embarrassed.

The girl looked down at the necklace and smiled, clasping it about her neck. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Aventus," he said.

"Aventus Aretino?" she asked, sounding surprised.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. He hadn't supposed the name of the boy who summoned the Dark Brotherhood had gotten out this far, but apparently he was wrong. "I guess you've heard of me," he surmised anxiously.

"I heard you summoned the Dark Brotherhood, and that you want to join them when you grow up," she said matter-of-factly.

"Uh, yeah," he replied, gazing up in surprise. There was no condemnation on her face, not even shock. "You…don't care?" he asked, amazed and hardly daring to believe it.

She smiled, and his heart beat a little faster. "There are definitely worse things to do with your life."

"I…What's your name?" he asked, gazing at her across the pool.

"Call me Beth," she said, holding out her hand. Aventus took it, a little surprised at how cool it was, but then he remembered that she had been washing her hands in the stream.

"I, uh, there's…I live just down there. There's food and…would you like to…"

At that moment, the cry of a dragon split the air, and the children looked up to see one of the great beasts flying overhead. Aventus's mouth split into a wide grin as he saw three figures perched along the column of its neck, but when he turned to reassure Beth, she was gone. He leapt to his feet, looking around in disappointment, but couldn't spot her anywhere. Defeated, Aventus turned and trudged down the hill to greet Ysmir and whoever she had brought back with her. By the time he reached them, he had decided to keep the meeting a secret. After all, Beth had seemed shy of a dragon, and he didn't want his little brothers scaring her away.

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* * *

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Babette watched from a rise as the Dragonborn hopped off the dragon she rode, followed quickly by a lithe woman in Ancient Nord Armor, and a big man who fell back and looked queasy. She chuckled, watching his reaction. Golden light arched over the Dragonborn's hand, and he straightened, looking steadier.

Aventus slowed when he reached the edge of the crowd, sort of hovering around the edges as he waited for the younger children to work out their exuberance. Babette tilted her head to the side; she'd had no idea there were so many.

Ysmir spotted him and smiled, holding out an arm, which he walked into willingly, returning the Dragonborn's embrace as if she truly were his mother, or at least a beloved older sister. The vampire girl sat on her rock high up the cliff, thinking and absently fingering the amulet the boy had given "Beth," then scowling a bit and shoving the bright piece of jewelry beneath her clothing before its shine gave away her position.

He had said it matched her eyes.

She smiled a bit, then sighed and rubbed her brow. Aventus Arentino…she had not expected the Dragonborn to adopt the boy. This was even more complicated than she had thought. He was a future member, and there were rules, things a member of the Dark Brotherhood just did not do to the family members of fellow assassins. Years ago, she had learned that the Five Tenants were only the written version of the rules, but simply stated the Brotherhood was a family, and one did not deliberately cause a member of the family such pain as loosing yet another mother would to Aventus.

The little vampire clenched her jaw, feeling her fangs prick at the inside of her lower lip. He wasn't a member yet, she thought stubbornly.

But he might never be, if this contract was carried out.

"Ah, Sithis," she muttered, watching as the Dragonborn handed a chicken—and what was the woman doing with a chicken?—to another child, a girl with brown hair who gave it a pat and walked over to an enclosure of animals that seemed curiously unimpressed with the presence of the dragon, releasing it among the chickens already there. It paused for a moment, looked around, and then settled its feathers and began to peck at the ground. Babette snickered at the thought of the chicken on the back of the dragon, the wind through its feathers as it tried to panic, and her mark having to fight just to keep it from plunging to its death thousands of lengths below.

The wind changed direction, and the vampire froze, listening.

"…riding the things!...really has abandoned…"

The man that spoke was easy to find, hidden, as she was, in the rocky prominences of the mountain. He watched the Dragonborn's home with a spy glass, laying on his stomach, muttering to himself. A Nord, broad in the shoulder and apparently small in sense, he was half again the size of Arnbjorn.

"I wish Garrot would come back with that food," he sighed as Babette stood openly behind him, hands on her hips. This dolt was barely concealed from anything, and there was almost no chance the Dragonborn had missed seeing him as she flew over on that dragon. She could only think that this meant the Dragonborn knew not only that she was being watched, but by whom, and that she either thought them too much trouble to chase down, or completely ineffectual. At the moment, Babette was betting on the latter.

"A bit green, are you?" she asked scathingly.

The man startled so badly he nearly dropped the spyglass, batting it from one hand to the other until he managed to catch it. He gaped at her. "Where did you come from?"

"If you had any skill in sneaking or mountain climbing, you would already know," she informed him, for there was only one way onto this ledge besides the narrow goat path he had apparently used. A small camp was pressed up back against the cliff wall, a cold camp with no fire and only the basic amenities. The man was pitiful, but she had to give him that much credit, at least. Or perhaps that was the work of his absent partner.

He glanced back down at the house. "Are you one of hers? The Traitor's?"

"Traitor?" she repeated, interested. "No, I'm not one of the Dragonborn's pet children. Who exactly are you?"

"Bjalf," he answered, without even thinking twice about it. Babette repressed a sigh; Aventus had better instincts than this idiot, and the boy was barely thirteen.

"And?" she prompted.

"And what?" he asked, confused and taken completely off-guard by this strange little girl that suddenly appeared and started interrogating him.

"Why are you spying on that house, Bjalf?" she supplied, speaking slowly as she would to an imbecile.

"I…" he glanced away and seemed to recover himself, "You would not understand. Run along and play."

She grinned, even as she gritted her teeth at the dismissal, "Oh, should I go see if one of _those_ children wants to play with me? We can play 'spot the man on the ridge.'"

Bjalf sat up sharply. "No! Don't do that. I can't tell you why we're here, but I can promise that it's important."

Babette was growing bored of this, and was long past wishing to not need to listen this spy's stupidity. She leaned over, fixing him with an unblinking stare. Bjalf gazed up into her eyes, which seemed to grow, becoming, for a moment, everything, until he blinked, and shook his head in befuddlement. The girl leaned back, just looking at him. The girl, right. She was his friend. She had a right to know what he was doing, out in the middle of nowhere like this.

"I'm a member of the Blades," he began, and her eyes widened in disbelief, "This is my first mission, with my superior. They didn't think I was ready to slay dragons yet, so they sent me to watch the Traitor Dragonborn, and they were right! She just rode a dragon down to her house, and—look at that! She let it go. It's flying away," he said, indignation in every line of him.

"So…the Blades want to kill the Dragonborn?" Babette surmised, her interest caught once again.

"Oh, no," he hastily assured her, much to her disappointment. "We need her. If she will only come around…and she will, eventually. I mean, how long can one deal with creatures as treacherous as dragons before they turn on you? One will do something she can't excuse, and she'll come back and lead us like she's supposed to."

Babette sneered, "They only let you in for your size, right?" she asked the foolish man, who was, honestly, one of the largest Nords she had ever seen. If he had any aim whatsoever (and others managed to stay out of his way) he could probably severely wound a dragon with one hit. He blustered a bit, but she ignored it in favor of her own thoughts. Finally, he seemed to run out of words, and she made up her mind.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" he finally asked her.

"Apparently, getting a snack," she replied, and lunged. Bjalf gave a short, strangled cry, but she was already on him, gazing into his face until he fell under her spell and simply sat quietly as she sank her fangs into his neck. His blood was thick, and just a bit sour, but she hadn't eaten anything but blood potions for a few days, and gulped her fill.

He was still alive when she backed away—he was so large he could live through the small amount of bloodloss she took with her feeding. A savage slice with his dagger fixed that, and nicely concealed the tiny pinpricks of her teeth. Babette left him bleeding on the ridge, and climbed back up to a place she could overlook both his camp and the house, taking the spyglass with her and playing with it absently as she listened to him gasp his last.

The absent Garrot returned a good while later, recently cooked goat on the long wooden plate he carried. He dropped it when he saw his simpleton of a partner, freshly dead and rapidly cooling as the hour grew late on this overcast day. Babette idly watched him mourn, musing that someone who fought dragons so often should be more inured to the death of a comrade.

The Blade stopped, gazing up at the house, where her mark could clearly be spotted, thanks to that fabulous, blood-red hair, walking to the house from somewhere below their perch. His hands clenched into fists, he growled out "Dragonborn…"

Babette's eyebrows rose. This could prove a more useful encounter than just as a meal break. Garrot hefted Bjalf's corpse up and onto his shoulders, heading down the mountain without even packing up what few belongings must certainly be there. Then again, he would probably have to choose between carrying the large corpse or anything else. The assassin watched him go, fiddling with the necklace Aventus had given her. The big Nord's blood, splashed across the rocks before her, caught the light of the westerning sun, and she smiled, turning the pendant this way and that.

Her eyes weren't the only thing it matched.

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**So...I discovered that I really like writing Babette. Still trying to stick to in-game lore here, so I read all about vampirism in the Elder Scrolls games, but I've never played one, so it was a bit of a challenge figuring out what they can and can't do. **

**As always, thank for reading! A whopping seventy-three of you checked in on Wednesday: That's a new record! (Tell your friends! We can beat that record! *hint hint, nudge nudge I have no shame.)**

**Thank you Wynni, for your lovely reviews! And the bucket thing actually happened to my character once. Luckily I wasn't standing near a cliff.**

**It's been an interesting couple of days-I found a mouse in my bathroom and an egg in my supposedly all-male turtle tank. We took our oldest turtle, Gamera, to a friend's turtle-pond and she(still weird; Gamera's a girl -_-' ) walked over to a bush and started digging a whole, which she then proceeded to fill up with eggs. Apparently we have to do this one or two more times just to make sure all the eggs are out, since they can lay several clutches. **

**I'm splitting my Muse's attention now (whether she likes it or not), between this and an original story I wrote. I'm doing one last brush-up of it, and starting to try to find a literary agent again (Predators and Editors is a god-send of a site). I don't like getting rejected, but that's a large part of getting published. Wish me luck!**


	18. Chapter 18: The Business of the Temple

Miraak gazed up at the suspended skeleton of a dragon, taken from the many that littered the ground outside his temple. Probably one of the further ones, since he rather liked having visitors run the gauntlet of the ones he had managed to kill before Hermaeus Mora pulled him from the fight. He wondered, sometimes, if he should have died then, if things would have been better. He never would have spent four millennia in Apocrypha, watching the others around him come and fade in their search for whatever it was that brought them. Perhaps his death would have become an inspiration to those Nords, like Gormlaith, that later opposed their dragon overlords.

Well, no matter.

He looked around, noting the masked figures that scurried to and fro, all unaware of his invisible, ethereal form among them. There were so many more than before. He wondered how many were here because of his original call, and how many because they discovered he was the new Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate. Many of them were Dunmer, but most were Nords, even a few Skaal, which he had not expected. He found he could see through their masks, both physical and otherwise. Their hopes, fears, desires; was this how Mora had always seen mortals? Miraak shook his head at the thought of how foolish he had been, to think he could hide something from a creature whose very vision was the inner thoughts of those he beheld.

Not that he'd ever admit that out loud. It had come his way in the end, after all.

A group of scantily clad women appeared, loudly complaining as they were ushered out by one of his lieutenants. They whined about how far they had come to see him. Him. That was interesting; he hadn't had women acting this way about him since he was a Dragon Priest, but these were obviously of the same ilk, wanting only the power he provided, no matter what kind of man he was. Miraak shook his head; some things transcended the ages, he supposed.

A pair of children ran past, giggling as they chased each other to and fro, and he paused. There had been no children here last time he was around. Curious, he began walking closer to the groups of milling women, both masked and not, that he had avoided before in favor of eavesdropping on the warriors and workers. Several were talking of their children, and the village above.

Since when had there been a village?

Frowning, Miraak quickened his step, through the winding passages, both old and new, of his temple until he reached the office of his steward. Turinmar, the aforementioned steward, was not in at the moment. That was alright, as he preferred to find what he wanted himself, then see how much his underlings actually reported to him. Miraak closed the door behind him, not becoming visible with the action by sheer magical power. He'd gotten a lot of that from Mora, and had spent a great deal of time searching through magic tomes for spells he never could have cast before. There were many old, powerful spells now lost to the world, and he the only mage that could cast them. In fact he could probably rival Ysmir her Flame Cloak by now, if only he could find a way to get the smell of brimstone out of his clothes afterward.

Miraak looked around, edging away from a stack of account books that had been halfway through his ethereal leg. Just because nothing could harm him didn't mean the paper didn't itch. What should have been a spacious office was instead a crowded, cramped space, crammed full of books and ledgers, scrolls and piles of parchment, all covered with a dense, scrawled hand. Careful not to disturb whatever mysterious organization that must be there, if only inside Turinmar's head, Miraak made his way to the desk, scanning the contents until he found the correct pile, and leafed through the latest changes made to the Temple.

There was a village. It was rustic yet, having only been started late last month, but it contained the families of his cultists, those that still wished to associate with them. Numbers—Turinmar always had numbers. Five hundred and twelve cultists in the village rather than the temple barracks: two hundred fifty-three wives: eighty-nine husbands: forty-five elderly dependents.

Sixty-seven children.

Miraak sat in Turinmar's chair, a little stunned at the revelation. He hadn't had a community this size depending on him since…well, ever. Even when he was a Dragon Priest, Vahlok was more the kind to bring in families, simply by virtue of having three decades on the younger priest, who some considered an upstart for climbing through the ranks so quickly. Now, though…Nearly a thousand people. And that didn't include the hangers-on that inevitably came with such gatherings; thieves and dealers, whores and camp followers, beggars and those wishing to be taken in as servants.

His perusing called up another list. Seventeen blacksmiths, two of them masters of their craft. Carpenters, stonemasons, cooks, alchemists…there was everything to make this a real, thriving settlement. At the moment, most of the craftsmen seemed to be working on his temple, even those who had not yet decided to don the mask of his faithful.

Footsteps alerted him to Turinmar's return. Miraak hastily put the papers back, rising from the chair and preparing to become visible, but a new voice with his steward made him pause. Backing into one of the myriad little corridors between piles of paperwork, Miraak watched as the haggard-looking Dark Elf pushed his way inside, obviously trying to close the door on whoever was with him, to no avail. A large Nord woman pushed her way in behind him, looking as if she hadn't even noticed him trying to shut her out.

"Really, Turinmar! We have more than enough workmen that we could have all the houses we need in little more than a week," she said, lips tight with irritation.

His steward sighed, running a fine-boned hand through long, slightly oily black hair. "Dorte, please. You know how important this work is."

The woman—Dorte—put her hands on her hips. From her clothing, she obviously wasn't here out of devotion to him. "If all you say is true, this Miraak is older than the Empire. I doubt he would care if work stopped for a week."

Turinmar paled and glanced around. "Shhh, woman!"

Dorte snorted. "How he expects anyone to do a good day's work when they have holes in their half-constructed roof letting in ash and snow is beyond me. How is anyone supposed to get anything done when they're worrying about their child getting sick? Or about attacks by Ash Spawn or Reikling raids? Are we important to him or are we not?"

The poor Dunmer rubbed his face tiredly. "I'll see what can be allocated, Dorte, but we're on a schedule, you see. Perhaps, if you would go and leave a respectful prayer at the temple, Miraak himself will decree something."

Her snort of derision told Miraak exactly what she thought of that idea. Part of him was insulted, but mostly he was amused. Unlike the other Dragon Priest, he had never felt the urge to simply flaunt his power every time there was an opportunity. Such displays needed to be given at carefully planned times, or particularly opportune moments. People tended to become unimpressed with the familiar, so one should never show their abilities too often. It was best to do an impressive display only once in a while, showing no effort in doing so, and letting the tale spread and grow on its own. Miraak's mother had taught him that, long before she realized her son would never follow in her footsteps as a master bard.

Odd. He hadn't thought of his mother in centuries.

He watched Dorte and Turinmar argue for a few more moments, lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps it was only that in Apocrypha, he had focused on keeping abreast of what was happening in the world without him, and on amassing power. And, of course, on not becoming a Seeker himself. Thinking on his life before he became a Dragon Priest had been futile even when he had still been faithfully serving Alduin. His mother had been long gone by then; invited to play at the city now called Labyrinthian, she had never come back out.

Futile thoughts, indeed.

His wandering attention was regained as Dorte slammed the door behind her, and Turinmar fell into his chair with an explosive sigh, gazing over the papers on his desk with a somewhat hopeless expression. Miraak had seen that look before, when the man was frantically trying to arrange the numbers to best fit every problem. He had driven the elf to that look several times, and he found himself regretting it. Constant stress was no way to repay a man that had been among your first faithful, and remained after two hundred years.

On the other hand, the elf was dreadfully easy to goad, and Miraak was in a good mood.

"Tired, Turinmar?" he asked, allowing the invisibility to dissipate when he reached the center of the room.

The Dunmer jumped, red eyes wide. "My lord!" he squeaked, trying to bow and slamming his head on the desk. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Obviously," Miraak drawled.

"Your temple is coming along quickly, sire," the man said, jumping to his feet and looking for the relevant paperwork while he absently rubbed the growing bruise on his forehead. "At this rate, we should be done with the inner sanctum by midsummer."

"And the village?" Miraak asked, his tone deliberately bland.

"The…village, sire?" Turinmar repeated, starting to sweat. When his master simply continued to stand there, mask pointed patiently in his direction, the elf stammered, "The-the cultists were not welcome in Raven Rock, you see, and the Redoran Guards began throwing out anyone with any association to the temple. Your followers began asking permission to move their families into the temple sleeping quarters with them, as their campsites were being overrun with Ash Spawn and Rieklings. There simply wasn't enough room in the temple, you see, so I had some of the scouts find a likely spot nearby for a large, fortified camp. But they weren't _happy_ with a fortified camp; they live here now and they wanted real homes to return to when the work was done, you see." He paused, looking very much as if he wanted to cringe, nervous and a little out of breath from the long, quickly given explanation.

Miraak waited a long moment before replying. "Very good then."

"I'm sorry, sire, I—what?" he halted mid-apology, staring.

"Very good," Miraak repeated. "You've anticipated my wishes long before I voiced them, as usual. I wasn't planning on having a city here until the temple was finished, but it makes it so much more convenient when the workers are comfortable. Things tend to go so much faster and smoother, with fewer accidents and less complaint."

"I…yes, sire," the dumbfounded Dark Elf replied.

Miraak took the papers from Turinmar's limp fingers, pretending to skim through the progress on the temple. The place was looking very like the city-complex it once was, with the notable exception of the dragon bones, of course. Maps were last, marked carefully in precisely inked notations the depth of certain parts of the temple, and the myriad areas where cave-ins or rubble made progress slow. Most of those areas were away from the main temple, so were being ignored for the moment. Wordlessly, he walked to the desk and pulled out a stick of graphite, circling places in the less-worked on sections. Turinmar craned his neck to watch, obviously wondering what the Daedra was doing.

"How goes work on the village, then?" Miraak asked.

His steward flinched. "Slowly, milord. You see, most of the builders are stationed within the temple."

"With their families outside? They cannot be very happy about that," he commented, smiling a little behind his mask. Putting down the graphite, he snagged a plain parchment and quill and began writing up an ordinance.

"I—no, sire."

"This was once the grandest city in the area," he told Turinmar. "I would like to see it so again. Work on the temple is progressing ahead of schedule by more than a month; give the workers half-days for a few weeks, so that they can focus on the village, as well." He rolled up the parchment declaring just that and handed it to his steward. "I've circled the old city tunnels on the map. If you clear out the cave-ins, you can see what is still livable. Take the guards, though; there are probably draugr down there."

"Of course, sire."

"Now, what are these hundred followers stationed in Skyrim for?" he asked, eyes scanning the allocation page.

Now Turinmar did cringe. "I regret to inform you, sire, that we still are unable to defeat the False Dragonborn."

Miraak paused, "The what?"

The Dark Elf blinked. "Reports came in of a woman calling herself Dragonborn, you see. She can't be, of course, as you are the true Dragonborn, but she's made quite a name for herself, and people across Tamriel believe—"

"Turinmar," Miraak interrupted flatly, "Have you been sending my followers to die against this woman?"

He winced, "Technically, sire, Zirfar was. He was the one that initially heard the rumors and sought to squash them, you see."

"And where is Zirfar now?"

"He…he died sire, when the woman herself attacked the temple," Turinmar informed him, looking as tense as Miraak had ever seen him.

"Oh, good. Saves me the trouble of doing it myself," the Daedric Prince replied, and Turinmar goggled.

"You…do not wish the False Dragonborn to be put down? Even after she attacked the temple?" he ventured squeakily, not believing his dark, pointy ears.

Miraak snorted, "If she were false, I would kill her myself. As she is truly Dragonborn, there is no need."

"She," the elf swallowed, "She truly is like you?"

He laughed at the thought, "If she were some thousand years older and a Daedric Prince, then I would say yes, but no, she is not like me. But I have met her, and we have fought. I respect what power she does have, and the deeds she has accomplished." He tossed the papers back on the desk. "None of you are a match for her; bring those followers back home."

"Th-there may be some resistance, you see, to giving up the old campaign," the Dunmer ventured hesitantly.

"Then tell them the next follower of mine that attacks her or anyone associated with her will have his head crushed like a jazbay grape," he said coldly. He could tell his faithful steward was taken aback by his vehemence, but he didn't care. He could feel Apocrypha tugging at him, and needed to make his point quickly. He wasn't worried about Ysmir; she could take care of herself. But there were other ways to make a woman surrender than defeating her in battle, and he would tear open the skull of any man or woman that hurt his daughter. He sighed quietly, and reached out to put his hand on his steward's shoulder, which either surprised or terrified the man into freezing in place. "Get some rest, Turinmar. You're no good to me half-dead."

Miraak walked toward the door, intending to return before he reached it, but paused, half in and half out of fading to Oblivion. "Oh, and Turinmar? Put up a stone wall around the village first. Those dammed Rieklings are a pain in the ass."

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**Well, now we know some of what Miraak has been up to. I hesitated to bring in any new OCs, because I wanted everything to be as cannon as possible, but the truth is that we know so little about Miraak and his cultists that I had an almost free reign with what's going on there. Since this happens long after the DLC, I decided to add a village. So, two OCs for Miraak, but only one is a cultist, because I can't make life too easy for him, can I? :D I'll be adding more along the way, not necessarily just for Miraak, but to fill in members of organisations, because who wants to call a character something like "Nameless Initiate" (first example I thought of) unless the character they interact with can't be bothered to remember their name? So, we have Turinmar, Dorte, Garrot, and the late Bjalf. And, of course, Darva.**

**Thanks, Wynni for the review! As for your question, I had imagined Babette sitting there for the better part of an hour before Garrot showed up. I couldn't imagine them hunting and preparing food anywhere close to the house, where it might be noticed, so he was some ways off. Whatever was blocking the house from seeing the smoke from his fire also most likely prevented him from seeing the dragon. And, yes; we will see more Ysmir and Miraak (or Ysmir vs. Miraak, as the case may be) scenes, as well as more daddy-daughter time. Here's some insulin. **

**Welcome, new followers!**

**Please, let me know what you think of my Miraak headcannon for templelife! Even if it's only a word or two, I get excited to see a new review. I like to know what I'm doing right (or wrong), and if someone likes something I try to include more of it, if possible for the story. **


	19. Chapter 19: Seven Thousand Steps

Something was going on with Aventus. Ysmir watched, eyes narrowed, as the boy slipped off beyond Pinewatch. He had done that several times in the last few days, finishing his chores in record time and whispering to Ma'Rakha every time he had the chance, which wasn't often, as Inigo was planning another "survival" expedition. At any rate, Ysmir had barely exchanged two words a day with the boy since she came home, as he would be rushing off to…wherever he was going the moment he could get away.

And this time he was taking a picnic basket.

"Ah, young love," Inigo murmured, padding up silently beside her.

"What?" Ysmir asked, her head whipping around so fast her hair whacked her friend in the face.

"Pleh!" he spat, extracting several scarlet strands from his whiskers. "I only meant that the young one has been creeping off to see a girl every day."

"A girl?" she repeated dumbly, gaze bouncing from the hill back to Inigo, "What girl?"

The blue Kahjiit shrugged. "Probably a hunter's daughter. They bring their children with them sometimes."

Ysmir watched the teenager rapidly disappearing with some consternation. "Why wouldn't he tell me?"

"You are his mother; why _would_ he tell you?" the Kahjiit countered. "Young love is a fragile, awkward thing; how much more awkward when telling one's mother about it?"

The woman sighed, deliberately looking away. "I suppose you're right. I never…well, I suppose my background makes things like this strange to me. He seems too young for it."

"My background is no better. There were no girls in the orphanage with my brother and me. And the village girls were mostly Imperials," he confided, looking forlorn. Ysmir gave him a sympathetic smile for what they had both missed out on, not having normal, or even especially pleasant, childhoods.

"I just…hope his first romance doesn't turn into his first heartache," she fretted.

"That is nearly inevitable, unless they both loose interest together. Chances are, her parents will go hunt another area, or decide this place is too dangerous, and will leave."

Ysmir winced. For a few moments they were silent, each thinking their own thoughts. "I wonder what she's like," the Dragonborn finally ventured.

"I spotted her once," Inigo told her, "she is very pretty, for a human girl."

Ysmir grinned, "I didn't know you noticed human pretty, Ingio."

He looked mildly affronted. "Of course I notice pretty. Lydia is pretty. You are pretty, even if you do have a habit of carrying around eating utensils."

"Oh, am I?" she persisted, fluttering her eyelashes playfully.

Inigo shifted uncomfortably, "You have not by chance met with a dragon today, have you?" he asked, and Ysmir laughed.

"Relax, Inigo, we both know I like my men with less fur," she teased.

"Strange thing for a woman who has two werewolf lovers to say," he pointed out.

Ysmir shrugged, "I don't exactly cuddle up to them when they're like that," she said, beginning to walk back toward the house.

"Even if you do not, they are still Nord men—I do not see much difference."

"Very funny," she said, stretching her arms up. "I think I'm getting too settled for this adventuring thing. Every time I leave I just can't wait to get back here!"

"I am not surprised. You looked for a home, Ysmir, wherever we travelled. Even back when we first met, I knew you wanted somewhere to belong," he stopped and turned to her, suddenly serious. "It makes me happier than you can know that my good friend Ysmir finally has a place of her own, and that she allows me to share it as her friend."

Ysmir smiled, surprisingly touched. It was true that Inigo was her oldest friend here, even if she didn't remember much of what happened after his arrow struck her, and she fell and knocked her head on a rock. Of all her friends, he was the only one that knew the name she had born throughout her childhood. In fact, Inigo probably knew more about her than all her other friends combined.

"Well, since I still have one more place to go, would you be willing to journey with me, Ingio? Normally, I wouldn't ask, but since Argis seems to be throwing himself into farm work so…enthusiastically…" she trailed off, watching the man in question scowl down at their cow as Lucia laughingly tried to show him how to milk it. A growing bruise on his arm showed where the bovine had kicked him last time he had tried.

"I would be honored, my friend. I assume we go once again to discover what the little one's fate will be?" he half-asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Correct. Vil was right, and we're going to go where he said we should have started."

Inigo's pointed ears seemed to droop, "Not the big stairs…"

"Afraid so," she said with an apologetic smile. "Inigo, we're going to High Hrothgar."

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"I hate these stairs!" Inigo complained, peering over the edge of the cliff and giving a little shudder. "I say we slide back down."

Ysmir laughed, taking off her helmet and shaking the snow off it. The dead troll behind them had apparently loosened the snow pack before he jumped down to say hello, and it had given way just as she walked under it. Luckily, Inigo had been spared to dig her out. "It's always an adventure," she replied, grinning. "Trolls must really love this pass, though. I swear there's a troll here every time I come up."

"Remember that one time a dragon came down and ate it before we even reached the pass?"

She wrinkled her nose in remembered irritation, "Yes. It flew away before I could kill it and get its soul."

Inigo cringed, "How many dragon souls do you need? I mean, when is enough enough? Watch you do not get addicted."

Ysmir gazed at him a moment, startled. "Come to think of it, I haven't needed to kill a dragon in…I don't even remember the last time I killed a dragon. I'm usually able to talk some sense into them before it comes to killing."

"There are still a few Alduin supporters out there," he reminded her, gazing up at the monastery as it came into view. His eyes widened perceptively, "It seems we were expected."

"What?" Ysmir squinted through the snow falling thickly around them to spot Arngeir standing in the shelter of one of the doors, hands folded in his sleeves, patient as a statue. She climbed the last steps with a vague feeling of trepidation, giving the elder Tongue a slight bow of respect. "Arngeir."

"Dragonborn, I thought you might be coming to us," he said, and Ysmir was vaguely alarmed to sense tension in him. Arngeir was not the most peaceful of the Greybeards, having strong emotions and opinions, especially where the Blades were concerned, but she had never sensed this kind of upheaval in him.

"Should I even ask why?" she wondered aloud.

"Perhaps you should ask it inside, out of the cold," the Kahjiit prompted. Ysmir glanced at Arngeir, who nodded his wizened, bearded head and turned to go inside. Inigo sighed as they entered, his armored shoulders drooping in relief.

"Come, Dragonborn. We will discuss this in the dining hall, where the others can join us," her mentor said, suiting actions to words and heading in that direction.

"What about Paarthurnax?" she asked, putting her helmet under one arm and shaking out her braid with the other. Her hair was long enough now that she usually braided it in a crown about her head, both to keep it out of the way and to add that little bit of extra padding.

"He is not here, currently. He keeps watch over the other dragons. There are those among them that are having a difficult time accepting that they no longer need rule mortals."

"I've met them," she informed him dryly. "I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that they had the Dragon Priests rule for them, and aren't actually in the habit of direct dominion."

They reached the dining room, and through the seeming unspoken accord of the Greybeards, all the others were already there. Ysmir greeted them warmly, and they nodded and smiled their welcome, even if that undercurrent of tension ran throughout the room. Behind her, Inigo muttered something about the fur on his tail standing on-end.

"Dragonborn…" Arngeir trailed off a moment, looking down at the table with a hand to his chin, thinking. "Just as we sense the whisper of a Word of Power, we also sense the currents of a dragon's soul. Usually, we know a _dovahkiin_ has awakened by the feel of their first _thu'um_. There has only ever been one known Dragonborn in an age, but lately we've felt…something. We've been listening, sensing the movements of the Dragonborn Miraak in the east, but for the past few months, to the south—"

"You've been sensing my daughter," she told them without preamble.

The mountain shook as the three silent Greybeards muttered in surprise. Inigo clamped his hands over his ears and hissed, crouching, but Ysmir sat through it stoically. When the murmurs subsided, she continued. "I admit that I am hoping I'm wrong about her being Dovahkiin. My hope is that she is just a Tongue, like some others have suggested. Could she be?"

The Greybeards looked at each other. "It is possible. We do feel it when a person is gifted with the Voice, and manages a _thu'um_ on their own. We still feel Ulfric, when he uses the gift we taught him for war. This…it is so slight, a bare whisper. That is probably because of her age. When she is older, then we will be able to know for sure—"

_"Dovahsebrom,"_ Wulfgar whispered, _"mu vis mindok dasiik waan kon los drun het."_

Inigo moaned, falling to his knees, and Ysmir was distracted for a moment as she healed him, then suggested he go to the other wing and lay down. He nodded so emphatically his ears flopped, a bit of blood still running from one, and hustled from the room like his tail was on fire. Ysmir took a deep breath, turning to look at Wulfgar, who the others were gazing at in surprise. "What did he say?"

"My brother has suggested that you bring the child to us," Arngeir stated, sounding as if he could not believe it.

Ysmir felt the same way, trying to imagine her active, color-loving child running around the grey, dark monastery. "You want me to bring Darva here?"

He nodded, and Arngeir looked thoughtful. "It is true we might be able to know sooner if we met the girl, but I admit, I do not like the thought of a child on the Steps."

_"Sahqo dovah aal frey hi,"_ Wulfgar whispered. Ysmir winced and hoped Inigo was far enough away for his eardrums to stay intact.

Arngeir turned back to her from regarding Wulfgar, "He suggests that the red dragon might aid you," he translated.

The Dragonborn sat back thoughtfully. "He might."

After a moment, Borri nodded, apparently deciding they had said all they needed to say, and rose, heading back to his meditation. The others followed suit. "Your friend may need your aid again, Dragonborn," Arngeir reminded her, and Ysmir jumped up to rush to Inigo.

She found him on one of the beds, as she had suggested, with a pillow over his head, tightly pressed against his ears. She smiled slightly and tugged at it. "It's over."

"Good," he said, glaring at her a little. "When I agreed to accompany you, I did not expect to have my ears burst for my trouble."

"Neither did I, or I would have suggested you wait over here in the first place. Or better yet, in one of the courtyard towers," she sank down next to him and cupped her hands over his ears as golden light spun around them. "They want me to bring Darva to them."

"So they are calling her Dragonborn," he said, ears drooping for an entirely different reason.

"No. They don't know what she is, yet. They want to meet her to be able to tell." Her hands dropped, and she sighed. "By the Nine, I hope she's just a Tongue. If she just has the power of the Voice, she's in no danger. I mean, I would still have to train her, but then she wouldn't be Dragonborn, and will never have to face Alduin."

Inigo sat up and enfolded her in a hug. "There, there, old friend. Honey-bee will be fine. After all, she has a dragon for a mother, a pack of werewolves for a family, and an incredibly handsome and brave Khajiit uncle."

Ysmir laughed, she couldn't help it. "Not to mention Erik wrapped around her finger, Lydia waiting to bash in the head of anyone foolish enough to attack, Argis even more eager for a fight than Lydia, and Precious's protective instincts."

"You are forgetting the children themselves; they will not go anywhere without a fight, and have had some of the best teachers in Skyrim, if I do say so myself. They will be fine, Ysmir. Nothing bad is getting close to that house, or the people who live there, be it dragon, man, or mer. It will be alright."

"Thanks, Inigo," she said, sitting up and wiping a tear from her cheek with a smile. "You always know how to make me feel better."

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Back at the house, Darva looked up from setting the table and nearly dropped the plate she held. Beside her, Precious growled.

"What's the matter?" Alesan asked as he walked in with the cups, glancing down at the ice wolf.

"This is Darva and Alesan," Aventus said, turning to smile at the pretty girl beside him. "Guys, this is Beth."

The girl smiled, reaching up to stroke a stunning pendant she wore. "Hello. I'm _so_ pleased to meet you."

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**Dun dun DUN!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Wynni: Couldn't have said it better myself. I actually use that phrase, on occasion. :D**


	20. Chapter 20: Whirlwind at High Hrothgar

A familiar sight greeted Ysmir as they descended the bottommost of the Seven Thousand Steps; a figure in exotically cut leather robes, sporting a spiked bone mask that gleamed softly in the late morning sunlight. She sighed, pulled out a Scroll of Paralysis and cast it at her (she thought it was a her, although she had looted bodies before to find that what she thought was a her was actually an elven male). The cultist fell to the ground, the spell weaving about her form, and Ysmir walked over and crouched next to her, rolling her over to get a better look. Not much to see, really; seen one cultist, seen them all.

"Still can't get your Alteration spells to work, eh?" Inigo asked her teasingly. She shot him an irate look before walking around the downed cultist.

"You must be new; normally you people come at me three or four at a time, and I still kill you all," she told the cultist, then paused, seeing a note sticking out from the front fold of the garb, as if deliberately placed for this instance. Curious, she pulled it out and unfolded it.

_"All hostilities against the Dragonborn known as Ysmir are to cease immediately, by direct order of Lord Miraak. Anyone found disobeying this order will have his skull crushed. Those in Skyrim for this sole purpose are to return immediately. Recruiters are given leave to remain."_ Signed "Turinmar."

"Oddly specific," Inigo observed, reading over her shoulder.

"About time he got around to that," she muttered, wondering just who "Turinmar" was while she folded up the order and shoved it in her belt pouch. "So how about you?" she asked the cultist, who twitched as the spell started losing its effect, "are you here to have your skull crushed?"

"N-n-nnn-no," the cultist managed, relaxing out of the spell before climbing warily to her feet. "I'm here under different orders. Steward Turinmar wishes you to know that our blades will no longer be raised against you, so that if you meet us again, you leave us in peace."

Inigo glanced back up the mountain. "Did that Shouting do something to what was between my ears, too?" Ysmir shook her head, although she agreed with the sentiment.

"He also wishes to tender his apologies for the continued attacks upon your person, as it has been revealed to us that you are not a False Dragonborn, but in fact Dragonborn in truth. Although nowhere near as powerful as our master," she added stubbornly, voice falling out of the tone she had used to recite her missive and making her sound much younger.

Ysmir crossed her arms, irked. "How old are you?" she asked.

The cultist stiffened, squaring her shoulders and clenching her hands into fists. "Old enough," she replied petulantly.

The Dragonborn released an explosive sigh and turned to Ingio, "Why have I been forced to deal with so many sulky adolescents lately? My children; Balgruuf's children; dragons…What did I do to deserve this?"

Her companion shrugged, "Perhaps it is a warning from the Divines of what is to come."

"Talos forefend," she shuddered. Turning back to the teenager (who seemed somewhat affronted), she asked, "So what made you dupes come to your senses?"

"A direct decree by Master Miraak," she replied, sounding as if she were grinding her teeth. "He said that if you truly were a False Dragonborn, he would kill you himself, but as you do not claim what is not yours, there is no need to throw our lives away facing you."

"Well, that was big of him," Ysmir replied ironically, not rolling her eyes with effort. "Thank you for informing me," she added to the girl, who twitched a little in surprise and merely watched them as they continued on past her. "I can see why they sent her," Ysmir told the Khajiit, who glanced at the young cultist over his shoulder.

"Indeed," he agreed. "Even with a mask, there is no hiding what that one is thinking."

"I think she hates me a little," Ysmir surmised, lips pursed in thought.

"She is jealous of you," Inigo countered, then tapped his nose when she looked surprised. "Jealousy smells quite strong. Her master has noticed you, while he probably cannot tell that child from hoards of other masked figures. She wants him to notice her. She is infatuated."

"Poor thing," Ysmir said dryly. "Perhaps I should turn around and talk some sense into her."

"That," Inigo said firmly, "would be a very bad idea. Teenage girls shriek quite loudly, and I think she would pull your hair."

"Best not, then," Ysmir agreed, suppressing a smile. "Your ears have been through enough today."

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"Mother is going to paddle your backside," Lucia said in awe, gazing admiringly at the studs peaking from Runa's earlobes. Darva nodded emphatically, eyes still riveted to the bright little bits of gold. They glinted in the candlelight of Pinewatch like Runa's hair, which Darva had always thought was especially pretty; long and straight and silky, completely unlike the heavy coils that covered her head.

"They suit you quite well," Beth said, crossing her arms to admire her handiwork. Her red-orange eyes glittered a little, matching the dull gleam of the ruby necklace she wore. Darva hoped when she stopped being cute she would be pretty, like Runa and Beth. Otherwise it just wouldn't be fair.

"I think you should have waited until Auntie Ysmir got home before you did this," Ma'Rakha said solemnly, looking from her to Aventus to Runa. He sat on his bed next to Sofie, who had felt the need to lay down when Beth plunged one of her best sewing needles through her sister's ear. "She might be upset you did not ask for permission."

Runa shrugged, "They're my ears," she said stubbornly.

"They're her studs," he replied, unimpressed with her rebellion.

Beth shrugged. "Wear your hair down for a while," she suggested to the older girl. "That way, by the time she notices them, the piercings will be set and it won't matter if she takes the studs back."

"They were in one of her piles of miscellaneous gifts anyway," Runa revealed, propping her chin on her hand. "People send her junk from all over Skyrim, to thank her for—what are you listening to?" she interrupted herself, watching Beth tilt her head to the side and frown in concentration.

The girl straightened and smiled, lips pressed together. Sometimes Darva wondered if she were self-conscious about her teeth, for she never showed them when she smiled. "I think I hear Father's hunting horn. I had best get back."

"I'll walk you," Aventus offered instantly, and Beth smiled again, her lashes coming down to hide her eyes as she stood.

"I can find my own way," she demurred, then was out the door before they could say anything more.

"She's fast," Ma'Rakha noted admiringly.

"Yeah, she is," Aventus agreed as he sank back down, looking quite put out.

They knew that from earlier, of course, and by now were used to the way the girl would take off at random moments. After all, Beth had been playing with them for the better part of a week, now. Darva liked her. She knew lots of fun things and didn't mind teaching them, like a version of Blind Man's Bluff where when you caught the person you had to guess who they were before they were really "it." If you couldn't, you had to let them go. Darva found she was really good at that game. Beth had also taught Darva and Sofie how to mash up some blue mountain flower and wheat into a goo to spread on cuts. She called it an "ointment," and it healed the scrapes so much faster than just cleaning them did! Then there was the strange game she played with dice and a cup, where you guessed what numbers would come out, and if you guessed wrong, you had to give money to the person who guessed right. Beth was the best at that one.

Aventus was still watching the door swing shut, then jumped when Erik caught it, entering with a grin on his face.

"Your mother's just up the road," he told them. "Blaise and Alesan are already—" he was cut off as he evaded the rush of children shoving past him "—gone." He stared after them bemusedly, then paused as he realized one child was left. "Don't you want to go see your mother, Darva?"

The littlest child was still seated by the table full of needles and a particularly bright candle. She gazed downward, kicking her feet. "It's dark," she said, her face full of conflicted sadness, "I'm supposed to be in bed when it's dark. I was a bad girl again." She had also helped Runa find those studs so Beth could pierce her ears, but she wasn't about to rat out her older sister.

"It's getting dark a bit earlier now, sweetie," Erik said, going over to kneel in front of the child. "You didn't do anything wrong. Your bedtime isn't for another half an hour."

She didn't look cheered. "What…Uncle Erik, why does Momma keep leaving?"

"Uh…" he replied, since he didn't actually know. "Because she's a hero, and sometimes people need her help."

"They never needed her help this much before," she pouted.

"They did, but it was mostly before you were born," he revealed. "You know the stories, don't you? Everything your Momma has done?" When she just looked at him, miserable, he smiled reassuringly. "She defeated Alduin the World Eater, and saved the world. Then she helped stop vampires from raging all across Skyrim, and made a powerful Dragon Priest on Solstheim stop mind-controlling the people there. That doesn't even mention the dragons she's slain, or the bandits she's stopped."

Darva looked up with wide eyes, "She used to _kill_ dragons? Why?"

"Uh," he rubbed the back of his neck, unsure exactly how to get himself out of this mud wallow he had gotten himself into. "Well…they were bad dragons. Like bandits are bad people, I guess."

"Oh," she seemed satisfied with that answer, and he relaxed. "Does that mean she's going to have to slay me too?"

"What?" he yelped, completely taken aback.

"Momma slays bad dragons, and bad people. I did bad things. I got Alesan hurt, and I said a bad word to Blaise that made him do what I wanted him to do. I'm a bad person," she confessed, voice small and quiet so that Erik barely heard her.

"No. No, Honey-bee, you're a great person," he assured her, putting both hands on her shoulders and giving her his best, most convincing smile. "You're a sweet and charming little girl, and your mother loves you."

Darva sniffed, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. "Then why has she been going away? No one sent a courier asking for her help or anything."

"You think she's been leaving because of you?" he asked, incredulous.

She nodded, golden curls swinging.

"Well, I'm sure that's not the case, but why don't you ask her yourself?" he suggested, holding out his arms. She nodded and hopped into them, wrapping her arms around his neck as he rose, carrying her out into the early night and towards the bundle of commotion that was her family.

Darva thought her mother looked tired, but Ysmir's face lit up just a bit when she saw her daughter, and the girl wiggled for Erik to let her down and ran to hug her. "Are you going to be going away again?" she whispered into Ysmir's cloak, after the woman dropped to her knees to greet her.

"Yes, Honey-bee, I am," her mother replied, and the girl sagged for a moment before Ysmir tilted her chin up so that the girl was looking her in the eyes. "This time, though, you're coming with me."

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* * *

_._

_"Drem yol lok._ Greetings, Dovahkiin, Kulaas," Odahviing boomed, and Darva covered her ears for a moment before smiling at him.

"Hello, Odahviing!" she said, running up and throwing her little arms around his nose. He held very still for this, and did not take a breath until she released him.

The Red Dragon looked up at the Dragonborn. "I see no _hokoron,_ no enemies, Dovahkiin. I suppose this means _hi krahl bod?"_

Ysmir grinned. "If I could fly on my own, Odahviing, you know I would."

_"Do rahlo_. Who would not?" he replied in great humor. _"Fos los hin zen?_ Where is it that you wish to go?"

"I need to take Darva to High Hrothgar," she said, and he lifted his head a little in surprise, neck arched and eyes pinning, "but the path is very dangerous and…arduous for a child." Well, it was arduous or an adult too, but she wasn't about to mention that.

"_Do rahlo_. Of course, Dovahkiin. _Lost sadon gein praag do ek?_ Has she been called to _Monahven?" _the _dovah_ asked anxiously.

"No. Not formally, at any rate. They simply wish to meet her, and they told me Paarthurnax will be visiting at this time."

Odahviing actually chuckled. "Another to hear the Old One's stories. _Rok fend kos unaz._ He will be thrilled."

Ysmir shifted a little uncertainly. "There is, ah, one thing, and I'm not sure if you'll like it or not." He tilted his head to the side, then closed his eyes in surprised pleasure when Darva started scratching around his brow ridge. Ysmir almost chuckled; he looked so contented like that. A great elder dragon, turned docile in a second by a tiny, five-year-old girl. "Well, I don't want Darva to fall off…"

His eyes opened again, quickly, then narrowed in suspicion. "You wish to use rope." The last word was uttered much like a curse.

"Not around your neck," she said hastily, "just between two of your spikes so that she's a little more secure."

Odahviing thought for a moment, happening to glance at Darva's round, smiling face while thinking, then sighed gustily, sending Darva's skirts whipping around her legs and setting Ysmir's mage robes askew. _"Zu'u fen gelaad daar_. Just do not tell the other _dov."_

_._

* * *

.

"Well?" Ysmir asked Arngeir anxiously, watching her daughter sleep peacefully, wrapped up in half a dozen blankets and the old _dovah _that story-told her to sleep.

The Greybeard sighed, "Honestly, Dragonborn, we know not what to make of her," he confessed.

She hid her sinking heart with a dry response. "Obviously." From the moment they had landed, Honey-bee had been a whirlwind of activity in this normally peaceful place. She had bombarded the monks with questions they could not answer, until Borri finally told her _"Stiildus,"_ in a voice that shook the mountain. That had impressed her for perhaps five minutes before she was bouncing around once again.

Finally, Paarthurnax had arrived, and Darva had sat still while the Greybeards tried to teach her Unrelenting Force. After about fifteen minutes of lecture about how to use the Shout, and that it was not a plaything, they had finally given her leave to speak by asking if she had any questions.

"I already know that one," she had said.

Finally, after much debate on what Shout was safe for a five-year-old to know (after her display earlier, Whirlwind Sprint was out of the question), they had arrived on Disarm. Darva had looked at the word quietly before looking up at Einarth, who had imprinted it on the ground for her. "Does it always rip the arm off?" The old man had blinked, then glanced at Arngeir.

"Disarm means only that the _thu'um_ will take the weapon from their hand," the Greybeard assured her. "Gaze at the Word, and then Master Einarth will grant you his understanding of it."

Darva stared at the graven symbols with a little frown of concentration on her face for a long moment, then transferred her gaze to Einarth's face. Arcs of light passed from the man to the girl and she nodded, not showing any of the disorientation Ysmir had the first time she had experienced getting such knowledge directly. She wondered if perhaps she had been giving Darva a bit of knowledge without meaning to. That would certainly explain how she already knew Unrelenting Force! "Thank you," she said politely, and the man smiled, nodding back to her.

"Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax called, and they all turned to look at the old _dovah,_ "Give your weapon to one of the brothers. _Hin fen los norok._ You are too strong a warrior for her _thu'um_ to affect you."

Ysmir nodded and handed her Dragon Priest dagger to Wulfgar, who seemed to be the only one willing to touch it. He went and stood before Darva, holding the blade in a fighter's stance. Ysmir lifted an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

Honey-bee looked uncertainly at the old man, then at Ysmir, who smiled encouragingly. "You won't hurt him," she assured the girl, who shrugged, then looked at Wulfgar.

"You sure?" she asked him, and he nodded. "And you really won't lose your arm?"

"He will be fine," Arngeir assured her, sounding as if he thought her hesitation was silly.

_"Zun!"_ she Shouted, the Word exploding from her with surprising force for such a little girl. The dagger sailed from Wulfgar's grasp and landed in the snow several lengths away. Wulfgar grinned and shook his hand as if it had gone numb. Darva gave a sigh of relief, then wrinkled her nose and rubbed her throat. Ysmir handed her a bottle of jazbay juice with some healing potion mixed in, which the girl drank thirstily.

After that, the Greybeards, Paarthurnax included, had gone aside to discuss things while Ysmir and Darva distracted themselves by playing in the snow with Odahviing, who had been watching with interest. Playing in the snow with a dragon was a bit like trying to swim in high waves; you got knocked down a lot and had to flounder to the surface. Ysmir reclaimed her dagger, then told Darva a very abbreviated story about how she had gotten it, in the Nordic tomb of Volunruud, where she had had to fight some particularly nasty draugr and learned the first word of Aura Whisper.

Paarthurnax had come over then, to greet his little _kulaas_ and tell her stories. Ysmir had gone inside and raided the chest with spare bedding, but she doubted the monks minded.

"She could be _dovahkiin,_" Arngeir said with a helpless shrug. "She can absorb knowledge directly from us, rather than meditating on the meaning of Words, but a few particularly talented Tongues could do so, as well. I'm afraid we won't know for sure until she's older, or if…" he trailed off, glancing at her sideways.

"If she absorbs a dragon's soul," she finished with a sigh. "What a tangle."

"I suppose I do not need to warn you about the Blades finding out about this?" he said pointedly.

"No, you don't," she replied honestly. Too late.

"Then I advise you to simply give her time. The transfer of knowledge that taught her the _thu'um_ she used today can only be done by someone with a deep understanding of the Shout, so yourself or one of us. She cannot learn the way you did, by tapping the understanding directly from the souls she absorbed. If you chose not to teach her yet, she will have no way of learning new Shouts."

"I plan on teaching her a little," Ysmir replied, a bit to his surprise. "There are a few Shouts I wouldn't mind her knowing, to keep her safe, but there are definitely Shouts she's better off not knowing." Such as Bend Will for instance, but she was too late there, as well.

Arngeir nodded thoughtfully, watching the child sleep. "You, the child, and the Red Dragon are welcome here tonight. It is late, and cold aloft."

"Thank you," she replied, quite heartfelt. A child who could Shout was bad enough; a child that might sneeze a _thu'um_ was something else altogether.

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**Finally, chapter 20! In which Darva tries the Greybeard's patience and Babette teaches the children bad habits. XD Whew, this was a long chapter. I was feeling particularly excited after the last one, which has four reviews! Four! That's more than any other chapter! Thank you guys for reviewing! Speaking of which:**

**CeliaB : Only if I get a cut. :P**

**Wynni: I love Inigo almost as much as I love cliffhangers. I highly recommend getting him. He won Gamespot award for Best Mod of the Year, once, and his creator-Smartbluecat-won my personal Award of Awesomeness for giving me permission to use Inigo in this story. If you do, get him from Nexus, if possible, because there's more to him. There are several videos of him on YouTube to help you make up your mind. **

**circassia : Are you worried about Babette, or everyone else?**

**Guest: Your wish is my command. Here you go. :)**

**Welcome, new watcher!**

**Well, guys, I'm finally plotting out exactly how to get this story to the end point. I usually have a beginning and an end in mind when I start a story, and it's the middle that becomes a muddled, meandering mess (yay for consonance!). The end is not near, by any means, but I know approximately where it is now. ^_^ I estimate this story will have at least twenty more chapters. Ye gods. **


	21. Chapter 21: Unwelcome Guest

Erik yawned into his hand, trying to be as silent as possible as he did so. The other mercenaries that he had served with delivering that silver shipment had taught him how to move quietly and carefully, to avoid any stray jangle of mail or clink of armor parts colliding against each other. Truth be told, though, he hadn't gotten any good at it until one of the less patient ones "borrowed" his armor and brought it back with something called "muffle" on every piece. Erik didn't know what he had been talking about; the armor hadn't looked any different to him, save that now and then it glinted green in the darkness.

He had first watch, as usual. He liked first watch, because it was easier for him than getting up after sleeping a few hours, only to go back to sleep again after, or waking very early in the morning. With a silent sigh, he rolled his neck to ease the tension, glancing up at the loft, where his borrowed bed was, with longing. It was sort of odd sleeping in the same room with Lydia, but not in the crass way his former colleagues would joke about. Lydia was a fierce warrior, and could wipe the floor with him whenever she felt like it. Erik knew and accepted this, just as she knew and accepted that he was trying to get better, and would help him out on his practices.

Argis, on the other hand, was sort of a jerk about it.

His gaze fell on the form curled up in sleeping furs just beyond the door. Erik could only see the big Nord's feet peeking out, but he could tell from the amount of tension in the man that the Markarth housecarl was sleeping lightly. The warrior thought Erik unseasoned, and made this painfully clear to him. That was alright, Erik supposed, if they were on a mission together, but while guarding the household was important, this was hardly a war zone. He thought the older man could be a little nicer to him.

Feeling his eyelids droop, Erik sat up, rolling the Staff of Ice Spikes Lydia had given him between his palms and legs, trying to keep himself occupied. It probably would have helped if he was outside keeping watch, rather than inside, which told all his instincts he was safe. A heady, meaty scent wafted from the stewpot Sofie had placed on the hearth, which didn't help any.

Rubbing his eyes, Erik wondered how long he had until midnight came, and Argis took over.

Something moved.

Erik froze, moving only his eyes, then, very slowly, his head, to see what had caught his attention. Two dull spots of red moved in from the front door, through the entrance hall, and finally stopped at the door to the dining room. Erik let his eyelids close most of the way, so that he could just barely see the incandescent spots through his pale lashes. He knew what this was; Lydia had described it to him in detail. This was a vampire. The glowing spots were its eyes, so its torso should be about a head length below that…

Apparently deciding he was asleep and all was safe, the vampire crept into the room, toward him. He almost panicked, but then the eyes glanced away as one of the children coughed, and Erik took his chance.

There was a muffled "oomph!" as the ice spike struck the creature, by sheerest luck pinning it to the post at the bottom of the stairs. Erik leapt to his feet, thrusting a torch into the banked embers of the fire until it caught, keeping one eye on the glowing form of the ice spike and the bobbing eyes.

Hand shaking, he lifted the torch to see the beast, and felt a little sick.

"Miss me?" the little assassin sassed acidly, tugging at the spike that impaled her shoulder. She must have been in dreadful pain, but she kept at it doggedly.

"Argis!" Erik hissed loudly, and had the relief of hearing the man grunt and roll out of his bedroll and to his feet, padding over quickly. For the moment, he was grateful that the man slept lightly, although he really didn't know how you could get in the habit of any other kind of sleep when you spent most of your nights in a stone bed.

"Erik, you idiot, what do you think you're doing?" the older man asked, aghast at the sight of a child pinned to the woodwork.

"Catching a vampire," he whispered back harshly. "She's a member of the Dark Brotherhood; Ysmir and I met her coming back to the house."

"And you didn't kill it?" Argis asked, sounding as if he were asking the Divines for patience.

"She looks like a kid!" Erik the Slayer practically yelped.

A slight creaking made them both turn to spot Sofie, coming out of the girl's room rubbing her eyes, then freezing, blinking wide-eyed at the scene before her, glancing back in the room as if she thought she might be dreaming. Finally, she focused on the vampire, "Beth?" she asked in a small voice.

"No, not Beth," Erik thought fiercely as the vampire scowled at him, then snapped his fingers, "Babette! That was her name."

"Why is Beth pinned to the wall?" Sofie asked, alarmed as she began to realize this was not a bizarre dream.

"She's not Beth," Argis said shortly. "Go wake up Lydia," he ordered sternly, and she ran to do just that as the Bulwark lifted the sword he had carried in and placed it against the small assassin's throat. "What are you doing here, vampire?"

"I'm just a lost child, looking for some milk," she lied cheekily, her eyes getting big and helpless. "Won't you help me?" Argis regarded her for a moment, then slapped her face with the flat of his blade. She yelped and glared at him, "I'm going to rip your throat out for that," she snarled.

"Try," the man challenged. Erik just shook his head, holding the staff at the ready in case he needed to make another spike.

"What is going on here?" Lydia hissed angrily as she came down the stairs, her hair askew and her sleeping tunic rumpled. She halted at the sight of the girl. "Oh, a vampire," she said, quite as if this were an everyday occurrence. Sofie's gaze bounced between Lydia and the vampire as the woman went to the chest in the front room and returned with some rope. Walking up to Erik, she held out a hand. "May I borrow that a moment?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied, surprised, as he handed it over to her. Sofie clapped both hands over her mouth as Lydia struck the vampire child in the head with the staff, knocking her out, then serenely walked over and yanked the spike from the wall. Erik shifted uncomfortably as she began tying the slender arms behind the vampire's back. "You seem awfully undisturbed by this," he commented. For once, Argis seemed to agree with him.

"Ysmir is not the only member of the Dawnguard in this house," she replied with a snort, tying the knots securely, then lifting the vampire into her arms. "I've seen vampires that look younger than this. Ysmir could never bear to do away with them; either I had to kill them or help her drag them, kicking and screaming, to Falion for a cure." She hitched the child up on her shoulder a bit more securely, then headed up the stairs, through her room and back into the second story of the back section, where the door to Ysmir's old Alchemy lab was locked up tight. "Here," she said, handing the vampire to Erik, who held her gingerly.

"What are you planning to do with her?" Argis asked, eyeing all of them like he thought they were insane.

Lydia was rummaging around on the top sill of the door, from which she pulled down a key and unlocked it. A strange, sulfurous smell assaulted all of them, but the housecarl just pulled her shirt up over her mouth and dragged a chair inside the empty, circular room, placing it in the very center. Looking at Erik, she pointed at it, and he held his breath and deposited the vampire child on it, immediately after which Lydia began lashing her to it with thick, sturdy rope.

"Why are we keeping it?" Argis asked, aggravated as they tested the ropes for security.

"Do you want to explain to Ysmir that we killed her rather than cured her?" the other housecarl asked, giving him a bland look. She stood, finally satisfied, and walked out of the old lab, locking it behind her and shoving the key down the front of her shirt, making Erik blush.

"We should just kill it!" he retorted, exasperated. "We don't have to mention how it looked!"

"No!" Sofie cried, darting between them to place herself in front of the door and holding her arms out wide, as if to shield it. The adults gazed down at her with surprised. "You can't hurt Beth!"

Erik glanced at the other two, who seemed too surprised by this level of vehemence from normally gentle, meek Sofie to even try to formulate a response. "Her name is not Beth," he told her. "She lied to you. Her name is Babette, and she's a member of…" he bit his lip, "a very bad group of people."

Sofie shook her head so hard her hair flew around like wisps of down. "No. She's our friend, and you can't hurt her!"

Lydia sighed. "How do you know her, Sofie?"

"She's our friend!" the girl repeated.

"I am too cranky for this," Lydia muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, Sofie, it's late. No one will touch Beth, or Babette, or whoever she is. We'll figure out what to do with her in the morning, when your mother gets home."

"Do you promise?" she persisted stubbornly, and the housecarl looked irritated.

"Yes, I promise," she replied. Sofie transferred her gaze to Erik, making him feel like she had caught him kicking a puppy.

"I won't go in there," he promised, "Cross my heart."

"I'll wait for Ysmir," Argis conceded grudgingly.

"Good," the girl finally relaxed, then asked, shyly, "Can I have a glass of water, please?"

.

* * *

.

When Ysmir walked in with Darva the next morning to find everyone sitting glumly around the breakfast table, she tried to not respond with alarm. "Look at all these long faces!" she exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up. "Who died?" When everyone simply looked at her wretchedly, her eyes widened. "Oh, Talos. Who died?"

Erik cleared his throat. "Um…that vampire we met? She…made friends with all your children."

"She _what?"_ Ysmir exclaimed, nearly shrieking.

"She's not going to hurt us," Aventus said fiercely, glaring around the table.

"Then why didn't she give us her real name?" Runa replied, picking at her eggs glumly. No one looked like they had taken more than a bite or two at most.

The Dragonborn goggled, "Babette's here?" she asked, disbelieving. "Where?"

"She's tied up in the old Alchemy lab," Lydia told her. Of everyone, she looked the most normal, and it seemed she had only not eaten yet for lack of a chance. "I knocked her over the head last night, and it appears she's still out. Argis and I made sure there was nothing on her that could be used to cut the ropes, but we added some shackles to her feet, just in case."

"Mother," Aventus said, standing and rushing over to her, "She's not going to hurt us, please let her go."

Ysmir felt a sinking feeling deep in her gut. "Please tell me this is not the girl you've been sneaking off to see." At his flushed and guilty look, she sighed, imagining Sheogorath laughing in the background to this farce. "Honey-bee, go get yourself some breakfast."

Darva looked a bit surprised. "I already had breakfast," she reminded her mother.

"Then have second breakfast," Ysmir ordered, passing by the table altogether. All this tension was doing nothing for her digestion.

Reaching the Alchemy lab, she paused, noting Erik had followed her up. "What?" she asked, a bit more waspishly than she had intended.

"A courier arrived this morning, too," he said diffidently. "He left this."

The Dragonborn took the note and unfolded it quickly. "It's from the twins," she said in relief. Not that she minded getting calls for help, but her time was a bit short right now. "It says they're a day behind the courier. Oh, and they're bringing Aela."

Erik shifted uncertainly. "While I really would like to meet some Companions, you're pretty full-up here as it is, and with two more warriors, you really don't need my help all that much," he pointed out.

She looked up in surprise, then smiled with understanding. "You miss your father, don't you?"

He flushed. "I was away for months, and was only back for a few days…"

Smiling, she shook her head. "It's alright, Erik. You're right, on both counts, as much as I enjoy your company." Turning back toward the door, she steeled herself, then pushed her house key in the lock. It turned with a clank of tumblers, and she hastily pulled out a handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose with. "Well, if the knock to the head didn't keep her unconscious, the smell will," she muttered, entering.

The girl was just as she remembered, save that she sat slack in a chair, held up only by an impressive array of knots. Ysmir checked her hands first, making sure the girl hadn't actually been awake and trying to escape. Just to be on the safe side, she retrieved two canvas rags and bound the vampire's hands into fists to keep her from using her nails.

Then she went and opened the windows.

Babette hissed as the sun hit her skin, but the brisk breeze quickly cleared a good deal of the stench from the room, and Ysmir sighed in relief. "Well, I suppose you're awake now," the Dragonborn said with forced cheerfulness.

"I…where…ah, hag's tits," the little vampire swore, gazing around groggily as she came to.

Ysmir waggled a finger in front of her face reprovingly, "No dirty language out of you, young lady, or you'll get your mouth washed out with soap, same as the other children."

Babette rolled her eyes. Ysmir had seen that eye roll before; Runa had started doing it. She'd wondered where the girl had picked it up, or if it was just something that developed on its own during puberty. "I'm a little old to be treated like that," the vampire informed her scathingly.

"Perhaps, but I'm in the habit," Ysmir replied with a smile that was more a baring of teeth than anything friendly. "I bet your head's hurting you."

The girl scowled, "That usually happens when someone hits you in the skull with a staff."

Rather than replying, Ysmir held a hand up near the vampire's head. Babette cringed away from her for a moment, then graced her with an astonished "You're _healing_ me?" Briefly, Ysmir wondered if the girl was more surprised that Ysmir was bothering, or that she knew how to heal undead.

"No one wants a cranky, concussed vampire in the house," the Dragonborn told her facetiously. "So," the woman wondered aloud, standing straight and putting her hands on her hips, "What am I going to do with you?"

"Killing me seems to be the most sensible option," Babette replied caustically, then grinned, "but you won't do that, will you?"

"Of course not," Ysmir scoffed. If she really believed that, she wasn't about to disillusion her just yet. "I said that I'm not in the habit of killing children, and I meant it." She paused, as if considering, "But Lydia might."

The smug look melted from the vampire's face, which was beginning to look distinctly red where the sun hit it. "You know you want me alive," she told Ysmir in a low voice, not sounding like a child at all. "I can see the distaste in your eyes at the thought of killing me, or allowing me to be killed."

"I've done things I've found distasteful before," Ysmir said flatly. "It has never stopped me."

"So what _will_ you do now?" Babette asked, honestly wanting to know.

"Keep you alive. For the moment, that's all," the Dragonborn replied, closing the windows and exiting the room. She would need some help with that, though.

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**I managed to write two whole chapters this week. :) I also finished some sketches of the characters (NOT the twins, though, cause men are ridiculously difficult and I'm not satisfied with how they came out). I'll post them on Deviantart eventually, but my boyfriend suggested waiting until the story is finished, since people already have particular ways they envision the characters. I can understand that. **

**Welcome new followers!**

**Wynni: You made me blush. :) Yes, everyone is still waffling on Darva's status as Dragonborn, because they can't afford to assume anything. As for Inigo...well, he did sort of ruin me for other followers for a bit. **

**Eren-boambastic for chapter 14: Since I have no idea how far you read after reviewing I'll just put my note to you here. In lieu of a Deadric Prince of Snark and Hilarity, Sheogorath must fill the role. :D**


	22. Chapter 22: Uncomfortable Truths

"You can't keep her in there!"

"Aventus, I'm not talking about this anymore," Ysmir replied wearily, packing yet another bag, although she intended to not be gone even as long as she had before. Of course, the very act of her making plans seemed to invite trouble, so she wasn't taking any chances.

"She's my friend! I don't care if she's a vampire!" he cried passionately.

Ysmir took a deep breath, not letting her emotions get the better of her. Finally, she sighed, and sat on her bed. "Aventus, did she ever tell you what she was doing here?"

"Her parents are hunters, just like Uncle Inigo thought," he replied stubbornly.

"And who said that first, her or you?" she countered. "Do you want to know how _I_ know her, Aventus?" That shut him up for a moment as he looked stricken, as if the question hadn't yet occurred to him. "I've never told you, because I want you to make your own choices, but…just as you called on the Dark Brotherhood to eliminate Grelod the Kind, someone performed the Black Sacrament who wanted _me_ dead. Babette is one of the assassins they sent to fulfil that contract."

Aventus more fell on the bed than sat on it. "She's a member of the Dark Brotherhood?" he asked, his voice very small.

"Yes. I…I know you've never given up the idea of being an assassin," she told him, cringing a little, "and honestly, I was hoping you would give up the idea and decide you wanted to become a Companion or something, but I'm hardly one to disparage you if you make that choice. I just…just know that whatever happened between you after she got here, her original reason for coming was to kill me."

The boy's hands clenched into fists, and he stared at them for a while, obviously thinking through some things. Ysmir fought the urge to sooth his hair back from his face. It had gotten so long since she had first brought him home. It curled in soft dark waves around his face, and suited him much better than the harsh crop he had sported before. Unfortunately, it also hid his expression from her gaze.

Finally, he spoke. "What are you going to do?"

"Well, I'm not going to kill her," she assured him, and he relaxed visibly, "but I can't let her go at this point, either. I need some help from someone who…knows vampires better than I. The Papas will be back later today or tomorrow, so Uncle Erik and I will be heading out. Until then, no one goes in, no one comes out."

"She'll get hungry," he murmured.

"She'll live until I get back," she said shortly, then stood, hefting her knapsack onto her back, before leaning down to kiss the top of his head. "If you want, go sleep at Uncle Inigo's house. It might make it easier."

He shook his head. "No. If someone doesn't keep an eye on them, Blaise and Alesan are likely to shove crickets under the door, or something else obnoxious. I'll stay."

"Thank you," was all she said, dropping down in front of him to give him a hug. After a moment, he returned it. "And I'm sorry things have turned out this way."

"It's not your fault," he replied. "Come home soon, and safe."

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* * *

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Odahviing was, much to her surprise, still near. He waded in the waters behind her home, basking in the sun and ignoring her other two boys, who seemed to have returned to their normal, rowdy selves. He glanced up as she walked down to the lake and sighed with resignation. _"Il zey tek_; you need another ride. _Zu'u vust kos rahgron,_ I am not a beast of burden, Dovahkiin."

Ysmir winced. "I know. I just have a vampire tied up in my Alchemy lab and I need some help handling her."

Odahviing lifted his head and tail a bit, interested, _"Tol los ni med hi._ I would have thought you would simply slay a _sosnaak."_

The Dragonborn gave her sons a sharp look and they beat a hasty retreat. "Well, she was bitten as a child," she replied, looking away from his searching gaze, "and…my eldest son is infatuated with her."

_"Tol los dironzaar,"_ he said thoughtfully. "You have almost as many reasons to keep her alive as to kill her. _Ahrk vorey?_ Is she friends with the other _mal gein_ as well?"

"Yes," Ysmir moaned, wondering why the Divines delighted in giving her such trials.

Odahviing suddenly seemed irritated, gaze somewhere above her. _"Til los zuk._ You wish me to ferry the man as well," he stated.

"Erik can take a horse home, if you're opposed," she offered. They seemed to have an extra one around anyway; one with saber cat teeth to boot. Blaise had taken to calling it "Pelagius."

_"Zu'u dreh lost truk wah dreh._ I cannot always act as…as _cart driver_ to you, Dovahkiin," he persisted, looking back down at the fish that circled lazily between his legs, and Ysmir began to suspect there was something he was fishing for, and not in the lake.

"I would owe you a favor, for sure," she said carefully as he plucked a slaughterfish that was trying to bite him and irritably tossed it to the other side of the lake. He was not particularly fond of the taste of slaughterfish.

"Then I have a task for you. Only if you agree, shall I."

"Let's hear it," she said unenthusiastically.

"I need to speak to Miraak."

If Odahviing had turned into a Thalmor and demanded she give him cooking lessons, she could not have been more surprised. "Wh-why?" she stammered, flummoxed.

_"Zu'u lost praag._ My business is my own, Dovahkiin," he said, glancing up into the sky. "It is…_dii siifur kusah._ Personal."

"I…I understand. I cannot guarantee that he will speak with you, though. And if he does, that he will not try to kill you," she warned.

"He will not. Though a traitor to our reign, he is _dov;_ he will respect the wishes of the mother of his offspring."

Ysmir gaped, "H-how did you…"

She swore the red dragon snickered, "It was not hard to infer, Dovahkiin, and your reaction was all the confirmation I could wish," he added smugly. Ysmir briefly considered walking.

"I'm here!" Erik called, skidding down the hill behind them. Ysmir turned quickly, afraid he had overheard the dragon's low-voiced comment, but he did not appear to have. He seemed more interested in picking pine needles out of his rear than anything they might have been saying. "Hello, Odahviing!" he called cheerfully, still brushing off his butt.

"You again," the dragon said resignedly, recognizing the young warrior who had ridden him once before. Since Erik had swallowed a bug as they went aloft and spent most of the ride choking on it, the dragon was not eager to have him as a return passenger.

At least he hadn't gotten sick on him, as Lydia had.

Heaving a colossal sigh, Odahviing made his ponderous way out of the lake, spreading his wings to dry in the sun as Ysmir glanced around the surrounding bluffs, searching for the telltale sign of watchers. For once, there didn't seem to be any.

"Now, let us be aloft. _Daar los ni prudaav._ The sooner this is over with, the better."

.

* * *

.

_"Daar staad los rinik wuth._ This place is very old, and it reeks of death. Are you certain this is where you wish to be, Dovahkiin?" Odahviing asked, gazing up at Castle Volkihar.

"Positive," she replied, adjusting her knapsack in case she needed to fight. She had the Ghostblade with her, since it seemed to have a bit of psychological effect on vampires, and wore the pendant that kept her from catching diseases, just in case.

Odahviing glanced at her expression, then back up at the castle. "I'll knock," he decided, much to her surprise. She watched him make his way up the ramp to the castle for a few seconds before she hurried after him.

_"Drem yol lok._ Greetings, little mortal. Open this gate or I shall assist you," he said simply.

"I…oh," the poor Watchman said, gazing up into Odahviing's teeth.

"Hello," Ysmir called, bringing his attention down to her. It took him a moment, but by his start of surprise he seemed to recognize her. "Is Serana around?"

The Watchman glanced up at Odahviing again. "The Lady Serana has much business to attend to," he replied. "Is this a social visit, or an attack?"

"A favor, I'm afraid," she replied with an apologetic smile, good guard to Odahviing's bad.

_"Hi kuz rem lingrah!_ Do I need to take down the door, mortal?" Odahviing snarled.

The Watchman seemed to regain some spine. "I will not tolerate threats to the Clan. Desist, or I shall set the gargoyles on you!"

Odahviing looked thoughtful. _"Mmm, kusah._ I have not faced gargoyles in many years. They are quite…crunchy."

The Dragonborn snickered, then gave the old man as polite a look as she could, "My friend is just protective. Do you want to ask Serana if she'll see me?"

"Well," he temporized, looking at her askance, "if I remember correctly, you two were quite friendly. I suppose I can let _you_ in."

The gate opened just high enough for Ysmir to duck under it before slamming shut. "Dovahkiin," the dragon called before she entered the inner door, "If you are not back in an hour, I make my own way in."

"I shouldn't take that long," she assured him with a smile, heading inside Volkihar Keep. "Well, this place certainly looks better than last time I was here," she commented, glancing around the entrance chamber. The gargoyles were missing; potted deathbells stood in their place. New banners hung on the walls, depicting two sickle moons over a highly stylized nightshade. She wondered whose idea that was, but would guess Valerica. A female vampire stopped in her tracks and gazed at her in suspicion. Ysmir smiled again. "Yes, I'm mortal. I'm looking for Serana."

"Trying to fix that, are you?" the vampire asked, turning and heading into the dining room. Ysmir followed, noting with surprise that no bodies were present on the long wood tables, which had been scrubbed clean of blood. The goblets were still obviously filled with it, as were the mead casks set along the table, but the place was no longer the gruesome charnel house it had been under Harkon's rule. Even the tiled marble floor gleamed deepest black and purest white. Not for the first time, she wondered who had lived here before the Volkihar Clan claimed it as their own.

"Ysmir!"

The Dragonborn looked up and nearly gaped. Serana gazed down from the opposite balcony, happier than the woman could ever remember seeing her. Rather than the armor Ysmir had gotten accustomed to her wearing, she wore a burgundy gown that accentuated the curving lines of her figure. Her hair, which Ysmir supposed would never grow again, was braided with strings of crimson garnets, each shaped like a perfect little drop of blood. A circlet of gold set with a large, stunning ruby and a pair of moonstones graced her brow.

The Daughter of Coldharbour raced down the steps to throw her arms around Ysmir, "It's so good to see you!"

.

.

.

**Hello everybody! We reached a record this week of one hundred ten people looking at this story in a day! Woot! So excited!**

**Thank you, as always, to those who added this to their favorites or follow list.**

**I've spent a good chunk of this week doing art, including making a Fluttershy motif on a shield my jouster friend uses. I was also able to work on one of my original stories, which my muse has been turning her nose up at these last few months, so that's good. I might have mentioned this last week, but Vilkas and Farkas are _really_ hard to draw. I've finally gotten some line art done for Farkas, but we'll see how he turns out when I shade him. Maybe he'll make it to the internet, and maybe he'll make it to the Recycling Bin. Who knows? I also decided to participate in a Deviantart contest where you draw your Dovahkiin with your favorite NPC. I'm not sure if I'll do Ysmir and Miraak, but if I do I'll put a link-or, at least, what passes for a link on fanfiction. I want to eventually do a Darva/Odahviing or Darva/Paarthurnax piece, because I want to draw the adorable little girl with a big, doting dragon that could inhale her by accident. It appeals to my sense of "awww."**

**Wynni: There would certainly be some poetic justice in that.**

**Mike: Thank you for your review! I love making people "wow." It is a goal of mine in life. :) I certainly do intend to evolve the Miraak/Ysmir dynamic, but how I do it may or may not be what people expect or want. I hate being too obvious about things, and my stories tend to take on a life of their own. **


	23. Chapter 23: What Lies in Dimhallow

_Seven years previous…_

"Why am I here?" Marcurio asked again, gazing down at the charred Death Hound at his feet. He kicked at it a little, then edged away nervously when it twitched.

Ysmir barely glanced at him. "You're here because Lydia had to go see Falion, and because Inigo had a prison social—which is interesting, seeing as I didn't even know prisons _had_ socials."

The self-proclaimed master of magic winced. "Ouch. Passed over for a stuffed shirt and a cat."

"You are also here," she continued, pulling the chain to open a portcullis that had the bad taste to be in their path, "because I paid you to be, and because you hoped we'd meet a dragon."

A wide grin split the mage's face and he groaned, not unhappily "I never cheer to see the beasts save when you're by my side."

"R-ight," Ysmir drawled, smiling just a bit. The mage's arrogance was occasionally insufferable, but she still couldn't help liking him. Or perhaps that was because of some of the things he did when…she shook her head, consciously pushing the thought away.

They emerged into another chamber, this one quite flooded, with a waterfall that dumped right on the site of several grave markers—which was pretty poor planning on the architect's part, as far as Ysmir was concerned. Marcurio scowled. "Oh, great; grave water. Nice and stale and full of diseases."

"It's running water," the Dragonborn corrected him absently, "so it wouldn't be stale. And I gave you that amulet of disease immunity."

"Doesn't matter," he countered morosely as several skeletons rose from the pool, "it has something worse."

Ysmir sighed and summoned her Flame Cloak. Marcurio jumped back, eyeing her warily, then in disbelief when she simply charged in and battered their opponents to re-death with the silver sword she had brought. The action caught the attention of a vampire further in, and he finally came back to himself and zapped the bloodsucker with chain lightning.

"See?" she asked with a grin, pushing her hair back from her face. "No problem."

He looked at her doubtfully, "You do remember that we're mages, right? We can blow the things up from a distance instead of jumping in and getting sliced to ribbons for our efforts."

She shrugged, "How am I supposed to work on my Restoration if I never put myself in danger?"

Marcurio scowled, moving past her. "Go tease a mudcrab."

He was silent for a long while after that, partly because they were focused on moving quietly, partly because he was a bit miffed at her, she thought. Finally, they passed through two stone ledges with gargoyles atop them. Watching them warily as they passed, they emerged into not another cave or crypt, but a stone room, with a scroll standing in state on a pedestal and a pair of stone gargoyles by the opposite door. The mercenary mage opened his mouth to say something, looking about in appreciation, but Ysmir put a finger to her lips.

"I'll never tell you anything, vampire," someone was saying. "My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict on me."

A smooth, masculine voice replied urbanely, "I believe you, Vigilant. I don't even think you know what you found here." His tone had changed, becoming lightly mocking, almost indulgent, "So go and meet your beloved Stendarr." Ysmir exchanged a quick look with her companion and began to creep forward once more.

"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" a woman's voice this time, lightly laden with worry. "He still might have told us something. We haven't gotten anywhere ourselves with—"

"He knew nothing!" Lokil interrupted harshly. "He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon his prize, and we will not return without it." Ysmir shivered a bit as the honeyed voice took on an edge of steel, "Vingalmo and Orthjolf will make way for me after this."

"Yes, of course Lokil, but do not forget who brought you news of the Vigilants' discovery."

"I never forget who my friends are," he replied, almost off-handedly, "Or my enemies." Well, that last part certainly wasn't off-hand.

They had edged around the room until they reached the door, moving through it silently. Two vampires stood over the body of a man, clothed only in ragged pants. "What do you think we should do?" Marcurio asked, frowning.

"Eh," Ysmir shrugged, stood, and tossed a pair of Dremora Lords down amongst them.

"You will bleed!" yelled one.

"A challenger is near!" cried the other.

By the time the mages had reached the bottom of the stairs, both vampires were dead. "I know," the Dragonborn told the Dremora affectionately, patting one on the bicep, "there could be no other end."

The Dremora actually smiled down at her, and Marcurio openly stared for a moment until the daedra frowned again, gazing back. "I smell weakness," he stated.

The mage scowled, "I smell your ass about to be kicked," he replied.

"Play nice, boys," Ysmir interrupted absently, crossing the bridge to the circle of arches and looking at it curiously. The platform was large enough to hold a dragon comfortably, had it been empty. The outer reaches were surrounded by a railing to keep people from tumbling over, and the theme of rings continued inward toward the center. A wall of archways topped with free-standing arches marked out the first third, while another ring of free-standing arches marked the boundary between second and third part. "Circles within circles," she muttered, rotating completely to see everything. "Like ripples in a pond." A brazier filled with something that glowed blue-purple stood in a track near her, and she pushed it experimentally. It didn't budge, so she moved on.

"What do you think this does?" her companion asked, looking around.

The Dremora Lords stood just outside the area, looking rather unimpressed. "Perhaps it summons a dragon?" the left one said hopefully.

Marcurio whirled to stare at it, then gave Ysmir a look of complete incredulity tinged with dismay. She rolled her eyes at the direction his thoughts had instantly gone, walking to the center of the structure. "What do you suppose this does?" she asked, looking down at the button curiously.

"I don't know," he replied, face creasing into a wary expression as he came nigh to gaze upon it. "Why don't you press it and find out?"

"Why don't you, if you want to know so badly?" she countered, miffed.

"After what happened in that Dwemer ruin, there is no way I'm pressing any more buttons," he proclaimed emphatically, then paused, "Unless they happen to be yours."

Ysmir rolled her eyes and pressed the button.

A spike shot up and through her hand, sending agony racing along her nerves, and she screamed in surprise, bending double as her blood flowed down the spike and into the button stand. It retreated as suddenly as it came, and she clutched her injured limb to her chest, unable to think for a moment until her friend raced forward and healed the wound.

A purple aurora rose from the smallest circle of track, extending outward to one of the braziers. Glancing at each other with raised eyebrows, the mages moved to different parts of the circle, pushing and pulling the things into different positions. After a few seconds, the Dremora Lords even helped out, but they returned to Oblivion before the puzzle was solved. Marcurio paused for a moment, staring at where they had been. "They aren't here for very long, are they?" he fished.

Ysmir sighed. "They can stay longer, if you give them magicka and they're really motivated."

He smirked, still looking a bit uneasy, "How motivated?"

"I will make you press the button if you ask again," she replied darkly. "Seriously; did you ever think that perhaps they just find dragons a challenge?"

"Do they find you a challenge?" he countered with deceptive blandness.

"Your face wouldn't be improved with burn marks, Marcurio."

"This is true," he replied, dropping it.

Finally, all the braziers were lit. The center began to glow like a salt flame, incandescent white with blue and purple fire, as the floor sank. The mages cried out and scrambled backwards, eyes wide with alarm. The button proved to be the top of a monolith, and they approached it warily.

"Well," Ysmir finally said after they had circled it completely, "I suppose this is what they were looking for."  
"But what is it?" Marcurio finished, reaching out and knocking on the thing to see if it was hollow. He backpedaled immediately as part of it sank into the ground, then halted, baffled. "Huh?" he asked as a woman was revealed. She instantly fell, having been apparently trapped in a standing position, only moving to catch herself when she was near the floor.

Ysmir rubbed her eyes, wondering if the tomb air was affecting her; that could _not_ be an Elder Scroll slung across the woman's back.

"Are you alright?" Marcurio asked, rushing forward to help the woman to her feet. Ysmir's and Marcurio's eyes widened until they were round as septims; the woman was perhaps the most stunningly beautiful person they had ever seen. The Dragonborn flushed and suppressed a surge of jealousy.

"Unh…where is…who sent you here?" she asked, glancing from one to the other.

"Who were you expecting?" Ysmir asked, not very graciously.

"I was expecting someone…" she hesitated, seeming unsure, "like me, at least."

The man blinked, looking up from the plunging front of the mysterious woman's armor. A stupid feature in Ysmir's opinion; that's the first place she'd aim. The woman was so out of sorts she didn't even appear to notice Marcurio's wandering eyes. "What do you mean, 'like you'?" he asked suspiciously.

"She's a vampire, you idiot," Ysmir informed him acerbically, crossing her arms and looking away. She shuddered as her gaze fell on the monolith and chose another direction to glare at. She wasn't even sure a vampire deserved that.

"Oh," Marcurio didn't look nearly as bothered by this as he should be. He glanced at the monolith. "Why were you in there?"

"That's…complicated. And I'm not totally sure if I can trust you," she replied.

Ysmir crossed her arms. "Consider the sentiment returned."

"Now, now, Ysmir; be polite," her friend admonished. The Dragonborn gritted her teeth. "Well," he said pleasantly to the vampire, "We let you out, so haven't we earned a story?"

The vampire actually smiled a little as the egotistical mage used his not inconsiderable charm on her. "If you really want to know," she replied, "help me get back to my family's home."

"Uh, hello?" Ysmir interrupted, "I'm part of the Dawnguard, remember? They would want me to kill you, not send you back to your den of bloodsuckers," she told the woman, but she could already tell she would have to go through Marcurio to do that. He looked shocked at the very suggestion.

"Not fond of vampires, are they?" the woman surmised, gently tugging her hand out of Marcurio's, who hadn't released it when he helped her up, but rather held it near his chest and started stroking her palm with his thumb. She turned to face Ysmir fully, putting her hands on her hips. "Well, look; kill me, you've killed one vampire. But if people are after me, then there's something bigger going on. I can help you find out what that is."

"Didn't you say this Isran thinks the vampires have bigger plans?" Marcurio leapt to her defense with—of all things—logic. "What better way to find out what it is than to use a cooperative, courageous, gorgeous vampire?"

"Who will probably drain us in our sleep and run off to wherever she needs to go anyway!" Ysmir cried.

"I'm not even sure where I am," the vampire countered. "But I do know this: you released me, so I owe you a debt. If you help me get home, that debt will be even greater. Helping you discover what you want to know is small repayment for what you have done for me."

The Dragonborn gazed steadily into those stunning, burnt-orange eyes, seeing no guile in them, and Ysmir knew guile when she saw it. There was actually an innocence about them she never would have expected, and a fierce determination that matched her own. Finally, she capitulated, throwing up her hands and saying "Fine. Where do you need to go?" as graciously as she could manage, which, given the circumstances, was not very.

"My family used to live on an island to the west of Solitude," she said with a small smile. Just a hint of fang peeked out from between her full lips. "I would guess they still do."

"An island, really?" Marcurio asked, impressed.

"Calm down, idiot," Ysmir advised. "It's not like the bloody Summerset Isles; she's talking about in the Sea of Ghosts. It'll be colder than a Hagraven's bed up there."

"Oh," he visibly deflated, and the vampire laughed.

"By the way," she said, glancing from one to the other, "my name is Serana. Good to meet you."

.

* * *

.

Ysmir grinned as the vampire released her. "You look beautiful!" the Dragonborn exclaimed, "Ruling suits you!"

Serana laughed, waving off the compliment. "Ruling suits my mother; I merely advise." Oblivious to the stares of the other vampires, she linked her arm through Ysmir's, strolling with her toward the back of the castle. "What about you? What are you doing these days?"

"Well, I could tell you, or you could decide to help me with my current predicament and see for yourself," Ysmir suggested. Serana gave her a startled look, and Ysmir quickly brought her up to speed on Babette. "I don't know how to keep a vampire alive without doing things I'd rather not. And I have no idea what to do with her. I can't just keep her forever."

The vampire bit her lip thoughtfully. "You do not think she is a Telboth, do you?" she asked.

Ysmir shuddered. "No. She's of the Cyrodiil line, I believe," she replied, glancing down. "So I do not want to be away too long. Blaise and Alesan have gotten into that room once…She has not fed in at least a day, and I do not want them to see her like that."

"It may disabuse them of the notion of her friendship," she pointed out delicately.

"I would rather not have them disillusioned in that manor," Ysmir countered. "Now, I had best go tell Odahviing that I've not been eaten, before he widens your doorway."

"Odahviing is…?" she trailed off, inviting explanation. From her expression, she clearly expected Ysmir's companion to be a lover.

The Dragonborn grinned. "The irritated dragon that you will get to ride home with me, should you decide to come."

Serana's orange eyes widened in delight. "You are making it very difficult to say no," she pointed out with a laugh, and opened the door before them.

It was Ysmir's turn to look about in delight. "You've been industrious," she said appreciatively, gazing around the repaired garden. The moondial gleamed in the little sunlight that filtered through the northern clouds. It was hardly ever sunny on this island, either through nature or device. Ysmir would guess device, since the nights tended to be clear enough.

Serana's smile was all sweet memories. "Yes. Mother has been busy ruling the clan, so I tried my hand at it. I…rather like it. It's soothing." The woman turned back to her friend, "You may invite this Od…odd…your dragon friend to relax on one of the towers back here, if he wishes. The east one is rebuilt inside, and I can lodge you up there tonight, if you wish."

"Sadly, I'm afraid I'll need your answer as soon as possible. I cannot stay the night, not with all that is happening," Ysmir said solemnly.

Standing straight again, Serana looked at her with concern, "You have not told me everything."

"I did say I was in a hurry," the mage said dryly.

"Go to your dragon friend; I must speak with Mother," the Daughter of Coldharbour said, gathering her skirts and heading inside. Ysmir took one last, lingering look at the garden before she followed.

.


	24. Chapter 24: Those Who Bear Watching

Vilkas scratched at the stubble on his chin, sitting in a chair a few feet from the door to the old Alchemy lab, which was locked with a newly-installed bar across it. Inside, he could hear the little vampire muttering to herself, though he couldn't quite make out what she was saying. That was alright, since he really didn't care. As long as he didn't hear the movement of the chair, or the sound of ropes being snapped, he was content.

When they had returned the night before, it had been to a strangely subdued homestead. Lydia had reassured them that Ysmir, though absent, was quite well, but the problem with the Dark Brotherhood had progressed in a way none had expected. Though he'd tried not to show it, Vilkas had been livid. He had hoped, despite the dangers of living in Skyrim—especially during a war—that the children might be able to grow in peace. After losing their parents once, they certainly deserved it. But now that peace had been shattered, and the one responsible was cooling her heals tied to a chair rather than filling a bowl in the Alchemy lab, where she belonged.

"If you keep staring at it like that you'll stare a hole in it, and we'll have find somewhere else to put her," Aela commented as she came up behind him.

"I don't understand why we're even keeping her," he muttered darkly, crossing his arms.

"Don't you?" she asked softly, eyes regretful.

He sighed, thinking of Aventus's anguished expression, the taunt and tense air around the rest of the children. They went about their chores preoccupied, and their play was half-hearted at best. "Aye. I know why we're keeping her."

There was a long moment of silence as the Huntress settled herself cross-legged on the floor. Just that morning the wall had been piled high with crates, but had since been emptied, leaving nothing for the vampire girl to use as a weapon, or as cover, if she escaped. A few old beds had been reassembled and placed at the opposite end of the room, along with what few of the crates couldn't be placed outside or in the unfinished basement room. It had been interesting carting things from the third story tower room and past the vampire, but they had emptied the small room then readied it for the supposed vampire expert Ysmir was bringing back, putting not only a bed and dresser, but one of the old table-top alchemy labs. Unfortunately, the opening was too small to put a wardrobe; the bed had needed to be brought in in pieces.

"I think your brother has found his new best friend," she commented, aiming for lightness. "He and Argis have been having the same arm-wrestling match for the last twenty minutes."

"Hm," he said, glancing out the window.

"Argis is a good fighter," she continued.

"Uh-huh," he replied absently, squinting at a speck in the distance.

"He rushes in more than I'd like, but Farkas does that, too," she added.

"Right."

"I think he'd be a good fit for the Companions," the Huntress revealed.

"Oh," Vil said.

"He makes love like a saber cat," she informed him.

"That's ni—what?" he turned, frowning.

"Oh, good; you were listening. Sort of," Aela stretched, then walked to the window to peer out, trying to find what was so interesting. "Ah, a dragon. You know you won't be able to tell if it's Odahviing for at least a few more minutes," she chastised, "so you could bother to hear me out."

"I was listening," he protested. "I like Argis fine, but I don't know him well enough yet to know if he would make a good Companion. Kodlak is the one who can see a person's soul on first meeting, not me."

She softened, leaning against the sill and crossing her arms. "I know you look up to him, Vil, but he's been asking your opinion on these matters for months; perhaps it's a skill you had better learn."

He looked down; only Farkas was supposed to know what Kodlak had said to him, that the man wanted Vil to be the next Harbinger. "I wish Ysmir would bring the children to Whiterun more often," was all he said.

Aela rolled her eyes, "I know. I can see why she doesn't, of course. And Divines help the poor town if she actually decided to live there. The poor guards would never know when a dragon was attacking, or visiting."

"Can you two keep it down out there?" the vampire yelled through the door, "I'm trying to plot my revenge in here!"

"How would you like to plot it after having your fangs popped out?" the Huntress threatened acidly.

"Go ahead and try; I could use a new fur for my bed!"

Aela sighed, rubbing her head the way Ysmir was prone to. "I hope that's Odahviing."

"It probably is," Vil replied, standing and gazing out the window.

"You go," the Huntress told him, glancing at the door, "I'll keep watch here."

He nodded his thanks, heading out of the storage room—well, what had been the storage room, yesterday—and downstairs. His brother and Argis were still sitting on opposite sides of the table, hands grasped overtop of it. Veins bugled in each man's forehead and on their arms as they strained against the other's grasp. Blaise and Alesan watched the arm-wrestling match raptly, eyes wide. Vil suppressed a smile. "A dragon is close," he told them, distracting Argis for a moment and allowing Farkas to press the other man's wrist to the table.

Blaise was at his side so fast the boy might as well have been conjured there. "Is it Odahviing? Is Mother with him? Did she find that friend who's an expert on vampires? Are we going to let Beth out?"

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, and no," he replied with a snort, strapping on his sword and donning his gauntlets.

"If it's a bad dragon, can I fight it?" the boy asked, eyes bright with excitement.

Vil regarded him expressionlessly for a moment, "No."

"Aw," the boy whined, looking put-out.

"Leave the pouting to the girls, Blaise," Vil advised as he headed to the door. "They're much better at it, and look a lot more attractive doing it."

The day was bright and clear, and Vil decided to spend the rest of it out-of-doors. If the weather held, he might even go for a run that night. He didn't think Ysmir would want company with a vampire child in the other room. Lydia walked over from the stable, a little worried frown on her face as she spotted his weapons. "Dragon over the western range," he told her, and she nodded, placing a hand over the pommel of her sword and retrieving her breastplate from the stable. Vil heartily approved of Lydia's attitude; she was never far from her weapons. Farm work made wearing armor impractical, so they compromised by keeping it near at hand, and wearing clothing they could fight in. Vil wasn't even sure either Lydia or Ysmir _owned_ a dress.

The dragon flew over the house, sending their hair and a good amount of straw flying, then circled to land beyond the woodpile, on the sloping land between the house and the lake. Vilkas jogged down the incline, noting Odahviing moving ponderously into the shade of several trees with a frown. Ysmir slid from his back and waved off Sofie and Lucia, who were trying to welcome her, and helped another woman down from the dragon's back. The newcomer was in a strange, foreign armor and dark cowl, and she staggered against the tree as if injured. Ysmir raised her hands, healing light arching from them to the visitor, and Vil surmised the flight had made the woman ill.

"Welcome back, Ysmir," he said, reaching them. Behind them, he heard Lydia approach, and Farkas and Argis beyond that.

She gave him a small smile, then asked the stranger, "Better now?"

"Yes," the woman said with a sigh, "I rather like riding dragons, but from now on let's confine ourselves to night flights, hm?" she added with good humor, standing straight. Vilkas tensed at the sight of the glowing orange eyes held in the beautiful, pale face. The woman took a few steps toward the dragon until she stood just within the shade of the trees. "Thank you, Odahviing. That was…remarkable just doesn't cover it."

The red dragon bowed his head to her, looking pleased. _"Hi los valokein, Mon do Krah Hjier._ It was my pleasure." Turning his massive head to Ysmir, he added _"Dahmaan un skunvar, Dovahkiin._ Call me, when you are ready to return the favor."

Ysmir wrinkled her nose. "How could I forget that?"

"Indeed. _Vonok, Dovahkiin_. Until we meet again," he said, then launched himself into the sky without a further word.

The Dragonborn glanced around at all the upturned faces, "He has things to do," she explained.

"So, we have a vampire locked in the house and you bring another here?" Vil asked, his cold gaze on the visitor.

She crossed her arms as Ysmir glowered at him. "You must be Vilkas; Ysmir said you would probably be the first to be churlish toward me."

"Serana," Lydia said, giving a curt nod. She did not seem uncomfortable with the vampire, quite the opposite, in fact. "It is good to see you again."

The vampire smiled, somehow not making her fangs more pronounced in doing so. "You too, Lydia. If you don't mind, I would like to go inside; it's rather bright out here."

Vil watched as the vampire walked side-by-side with his family toward the house, eyes narrowed. Farkas frowned, joining him. "You've heard the stories about her; she safe enough."

"Even so," Vilkas decided, "she bears watching."

Farkas snorted, "Don't we all?" Vilkas shot him an irritated glance and started up the slope to the house.

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* * *

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"Esbern!"

The Blade's Scholar jumped as his door slammed open with the thunder of righteous fury—he always had thought his fellow Blade had a sense of the dramatic, and she proved so now. "Delphine, how wonderful to see you," he said blandly, turning to greet the woman.

She scowled back at him. "All right, Esbern, enough is enough. I know you're up to something in here, and I want to know what it is."

He sighed and marked his place with a hawk feather, closing the book he had been reading. "I'm simply doing what I have been doing since we moved here, Delphine; researching the dragons and their return."

"You spoke to the Dragonborn!" the woman exclaimed, as if she had caught him dealing with Molag Bal. He had wondered how long it would take her to figure that out.

"She wished to speak with me, yes," he admitted. "I told her that as long as Paarthurnax lives, my vows as a Blade prevent further such contact between us." He watched her pace for a few moments, surmising that something else was bothering the fiery woman. "If you insist on wearing grooves in the floor, I would prefer you do it elsewhere than my study."

"The Dragonborn killed one of the Blades sent to watch her," Delphine said, concern in her voice.

Esbern frowned. "That doesn't sound like Ysmir," he began, but she cut him off.

"It was that fool Bjalf. Garrot said it didn't look like there had been a fight, but…I don't like this, Esbern. If she's thrown in with the dragons completely…"

"You know Ysmir has her own code," he told her. "She wouldn't kill a _dragon_ because she believed he's redeemed himself; I can't see her killing one of ours without ample reason. I certainly can't see her doing it without giving him a chance to defend himself—she's picked up that much from the Nords, at least. Are you certain it wasn't one of her companions? She does have a habit of bringing in odd types, and some of them might take finding a spy in the hills amiss."

Delphine paused, obviously mulling over what he had just suggested. "It could be," she admitted, sighing. "But I still don't like it, Esbern," she repeated.

"Where the Dragonborn is concerned, there is very little you do like," he reminded her, opening his book again.

After a few minutes the sound of pacing stopped, and he almost forgot her presence until she asked, "What's this?" in a tone that made his stomach clench a little.

"Research," he said, peeking out from behind the cover to see her going over his notes. He stood, alarmed. "Really, Delphine, you get to read my books before the others as it is. Do you really need to snoop into my research materials now, as well?"

"These aren't ancient events recorded here, Esbern. This looks like…" she paused, giving him an admonishing look, "this looks just like when the Blades were monitoring the Empire for new Dragonborn. You have it all here—cities, likely candidates, reports from guards…"

The old man thought fast. "I heard rumors that after the Markarth Incident, Ulfric started a school to reestablish use of the Voice as a weapon of war. I am simply looking for what students might have fled from such a failed institution." That was truth, although the source had been anything but reliable, so he had dismissed such a notion.

The woman continued to gaze at him suspiciously, and he gave an explosive sigh. "Really, Delphine, what reason would I have to look for another Dragonborn?"

"That's exactly what I was wondering. If you had said you were merely tracking Ysmir's whereabouts, I might have accepted it, but now…_are_ you looking for a new Dragonborn, Esbern?" she asked softly.

"This is ridiculous," Esbern huffed, doing a credible imitation of affront considering how rapidly his heart was beating. "You've lived too long hiding from the Thalmor, Delphine. For you to interrogate me in this manner, and in my own study, no less!"

She softened, "Forgive me, old friend. It's simply been a long day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dragon to go kill." She walked past her fellow Blade and closed the door quietly behind her, heading down the hall.

"Ready to go Mount Anthor?" the girl she was currently training asked cheerfully.

"No. Take Garrot; he needs to get his mind off Bjalf. I have somewhere else I need to be."

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**Hi, everybody. This has been a perfectly wretched week, but the three reviews and new followers went a long way towards cheering me up. :) So, thanks for that. Sorry, no Miraak again this chapter, but quite a bit of him next chapter-including some backstory. I also should have my contest entry for Oblivion Artist up by then, and it's a picture of Ysmir and Miraak. I have two versions of it right now, and I can't decide if I want to include Ysmir's flame cloak or not. I don't like how the flames are looking, but at the same time the piece looks so colorless without it (except for Ysmir's hair, of course). **

**Welcome, new followers and favorites! Thank you for adding!**

**Wynni: Ta-da! Here's some more! As for Marcurio and Serana...I always pictured him more of a flirt than an actual marriage prospect, even if he could coax Serana into a temple. **

**Mike: I typically try to keep characters as canon as I can manage, up until something wild and new happens to them and they change with the reaction of it, like Miraak finding a paternal side. As soon as I began writing a Skyrim story I knew I had to have Odahviing. There was no room for compromise there-he is undiluted awesomeness dressed up in red scales. **

**Wicked Lullaby: As Tonilia says, welcome to the cozy little family. As for the children...I can't resist their poor little faces and heartbreaking stories! PS: Fanfiction doesn't like the dot in your name. -_-'**


	25. Chapter 25: The Life of a Daedra

Dorte stood on a rise over the village, watching things get accomplished with an expression of satisfaction on her face. Miraak observed her watching them for a few minutes, until the children just below them—the only people in earshot—ran off, lobbing ashy snow balls at each other. Only then did he walk up to gaze out over the village with her, still a tad behind the Nord woman. She had an impressive set of shoulders, and he thought she might be a craftswoman, judging from that and the careworn state of her skin. She stood on a little promontory, like a sabercat surveying her territory. The mental image elicited a quiet chuckle from him.

"Which one is yours?" he asked as she gazed after the little ones.

"I don't have one of my own," she replied. "My niece and I live over with the rest of the stonemasons, yonder," she waved a hand.

"Your niece…she is the one who wanted to come here?" he asked, making a mental note to discover which of the hundreds of masked figures claimed kinship with the woman.

The woman snorted affirmatively. "Foolish girl. Lost her entire family to dragons before she came to me, so it's really no surprise that she came here when she learned this Miraak could defeat them so easily. Like a dammed moth to a flame."

"She came for protection?" he asked. It had occurred to him that with the Dragon Crisis people would come for that reason, but this was the first time it had been confirmed. Most came for power, or for some unnamed reward. A few came out of simple fascination, and others came because they wanted a new start in what seemed to them to be something out of a tale; for the adventure. Now, of course, he was getting those who wished knowledge as well.

"And now, with some dammed walls in place, she might get it," the woman snorted, finally turning her head to see who she was talking to. She paled, staggering back a step, and Miraak actually had to reach out with a tendril of magic to push her forward and keep her from falling over the edge. "You…" she finally rasped out, eyes wide.

"You look as if you didn't really believe I existed," he replied, chuckling darkly at her reaction.

"I…" she stared for a moment, then straightened. "I was beginning to question," she had the unmitigated gall to say, "I've been here for two years, yet this is the first I've seen you."

"I will share a secret with you, Dorte," he said, putting his hands behind his back as he gazed out over the village, "Becoming a Daedric Prince takes some getting used to." It had taken him so long to heal from the wounds Mora had given him that he hadn't been entirely sure he would still _have_ followers when he first ventured to emerge from Apocrypha, four years ago. It had come as quite a welcome shock to learn that they had not abandoned him, though he liked to tell himself that it wasn't all that surprising, given his displays of power before he had disappeared.

She scoffed, "What is this; an admission of weakness?"

He gazed at her coolly, unruffled, "Were I a weak man I would be dead. Were I a weaker man I would still be in Apocrypha, recovering. Even if I were simply a younger man, I would still be in Apocrypha. I still remain because I am Dragonborn, Dorte, and—as I believe you pointed out—I am older than the Empire. I have had a long time to grow in power and knowledge. You'd do well to remember that."

For a long moment, the middle-aged Nord just studied him, "How do you know my name?" she finally ventured.

He didn't bother to hide his chuckle. "You're the one who has been harassing my Steward; you tell me."

"What? Did he pray that I would stop?" she asked archly.

"Something along those lines," he admitted. "What I am interested in is how you knew the exact amount of time the builders would need to complete the village, down to the last piece of thatch."

"I'm a Master Stonemason, my lord," she said, stressing the last to be just a tad mocking, "just as my father before me, and his father before him. I helped draft this city, found the quarries where we mined rock, and dealt with what merchants would talk to us to get wood and straw. More than that, I talked to the others to find out exactly what we needed, and how much. They knew they could depend on my leadership, and that I would be here when they needed something."

Miraak tilted his head just a bit in response to the sullen anger that smoldered beneath her words. Blackness opened behind her, and she gasped in fright as tendrils shot out to encase her, a thick tentacle wrapping itself around her neck and choking off her air, lifting until her feet dangled just off the ground. The First Dragonborn watched her dispassionately for a few moments as she struggled, clawing and tugging at the slippery surface to no avail as her face turned red, then purple. "I find your audacity amusing, Dorte, but I will only tolerate so much disrespect. I'd caution you not to test the limits of my patience," he advised her ominously, releasing the spell.

The tendrils withdrew as abruptly as they had come, dropping the Nord to her knees before him. She gasped air into starved lungs for a moment, then glared up at him, a hint of fear behind her eyes that turned to surprise when she was pulled to her feet by unseen hands. Good; he wanted her wary, not frightened into uselessness. "You seem like the kind of woman who only believes what she sees, and therefore I am here. I want to be able to count you amongst the ranks of my followers, but for now having your attention will do."

"My attention for what?" she asked suspiciously, still rubbing at her neck. Realizing what she was doing, she grimaced and let her hands drop to her sides.

"Turinmar is overworked," he revealed. "He won't admit it to me, but it's fairly obvious. If his health isn't to suffer, he needs an assistant."

"The great Miraak, worried about the health of a single follower?" Dorte asked incredulously. Her words were mocking, but Miraak could see the memories pouring into her mind as she examined them and finally saw the same signs of wear in his Steward that he had. Concern rose in her eyes, and guilt.

"I concern myself with those that distinguish themselves," he replied dismissively, and saw anger rise in her again. She was so volatile, this Nord, so easy to goad. She would prove most entertaining if she decided to stay. If not…well, perhaps he would seek out her niece and see if competency was a family trait. "Turinmar has served me faithfully for longer than you have been alive, by concerning himself with those who were unable or did not bother to bring attention to themselves. Now, he needs help to continue to give my followers the care they deserve. You seem quite concerned with them, and your skill has distinguished you. Therefore, I want you to present yourself to Turinmar tomorrow as his new assistant."

He spoke so confidently, as if he knew she would do so now that he had decreed it, and Dorte gritted her teeth at the assumption, looking away and about to retort, but the memories of the elf's haggard face kept intruding. For a long while Dorte was silent, pondering this as guilt warred with pride for supremacy. "I wasn't aware Daedra delegated," she finally said, looking at him dubiously.

"I was not always a Daedra," Miraak countered. "I was once a man who ruled over a city very like this one, and I did it very well. I could run things by poking into people's minds and hearts, if I wanted to, but I think that would be uncomfortable to my subjects, and tiresome for me."

"That's…probably true," she admitted, finding it hard to look at him directly after this revelation, wondering what he was gathering from her thoughts. Miraak smiled as she unwittingly went over every scathing, ill opinion she had of him and winced, glancing around for a second portal to open and swallow her up.

"You don't trust me, and you don't like me," he answered the unspoken question after a moment. "You think I find myself too high and mighty to deal with the everyday details of a city. In a way you are correct, but answer me this; do your jarls personally deal with every village feud or skinned knee? Why should you expect from me more than you expect from them, when I have more people and two realms to look after? This is no longer the extent of my followers, either, Dorte. There are men, mer, and beast folk all over Nirn seeking knowledge only I can grant them. Should I leave their summons unanswered while I personally see to every petty problem of this settlement?" he finished scornfully.

Anger rose again to dominate her expression, but just this morning she had used many of the same words to admonish her apprentices. It was why he had chosen this argument. It was interesting, this method of rule by persuasion, and he could not say whether or not he liked it better than the iron fist wielded by the Dragon Priests. He could easily fall back into those ways of dominance, but in this day and age, when autonomy and freedom were so sought after people would rebel a at hint of tyranny, it would quickly loose him what foothold he had gained.

The woman groaned, "I see your point," she finally conceded, and Miraak smirked behind his mask as her reservations strained and collapsed under the weight of this new consideration. "I'll talk to Turinmar, but," she added, pointing at him, "I am not going to don a mask."

"I never asked that my followers don a mask," he told her indifferently, "only that they serve me faithfully. I do not need your belief or your undying devotion. I want your service." He paused, glancing upward as he heard a small, faraway voice, and smiled. "Now," he said pleasantly, unable to keep all the joy from his voice, visibly taking the woman aback more than any other part of this conversation, "I am being summoned elsewhere. I will see you again, Dorte," he said, half threating, before he vanished.

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* * *

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_"Sen, kroson veyn rok vust, nuz til lost nid staad fah mok," _Darva read slowly, struggling with the words, which translated roughly to "The boy wandered, working where he could, but there was no place for him." She stopped, taking a drink of the water Bormah handed her. They sat on a padded bench that had appeared here one day with him. She wasn't sure how he had brought it, and didn't ask, because it seemed more magical that way. Sometimes, she liked to imagine he would bring her a pony.

Gazing down at the book for a long moment, she finally ventured what she was thinking. "My brothers and sisters were like this," she finally told Bormah. "They lost their families, and made do with what they could."

Bormah tilted his head, interested in spite of himself. "What did they do to get by?" he asked.

Darva shrugged. "Blaise and Sofie lost their parents in the war. He worked and slept in a stable, and she would get up at dawn to go pick flowers, then sell them in the town. Lucia begged outside the Temple of Kynareth. Alesan delivered food to miners in the town where he and his sick father were dumped." She nibbled her lip in thought, exactly how her mother did, "Aventus and Runa were from an orphanage. There's more to it than that, only no one will tell me what it is."

"And Ys—your mother just picked them up and took them home?" he ventured.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, curls bobbing in exactly the same way his mother's had. His had grown out as he got older, thank the Divines, but he suspected Darva's would stay. "I bet," she continued, "that if Momma had met the boy in the book, she would have taken him home too."

"I don't doubt it," he replied dryly. She looked at him questioningly, and he smiled reassuringly. "Go on."

She took another sip of water before continuing. _"Rok bahzim amativ, erei gein sul, peh naal redenteyk, rok ruund soven Raald do Kaan," _she stopped again, confused. "Secret temple? Why was the temple secret? And who is Kaan?"

"Kynareth," he supplied, watching the falls. "Kaan means Kyne, which is an old name for Kynareth."

Darva beamed. "You're so smart, Bormah. I wish I could know as much as you do."

"I have read an awful amount of books," he replied, tone loaded with irony. "There wasn't much else to do, for a long while."

"Was the boy in the book Dovahkiin?" she asked guilelessly.

The man twitched a little at the unexpected question. "Yes, though it was not called that yet. There had never been a Dovahkiin before," he revealed.

She gawped in surprise, "This must be a really old book!"

"No. I copied down a much older story for you," he temporized. "Children and old things do not mix well," he halted when he realized just what he had said, for he was perhaps the very definition of an "old thing."

Darva scowled, scooting off the bench to walk around a bit. The bench was hard despite the pad, but Lydia had told her it was unladylike for a girl to rub her butt when she got up, so she contented herself with walking. "That's what Momma says. She had a whole room of books we weren't allowed to touch. Well, books and other things, but she moved them all to one of the other houses when Blaise kept breaking in. He said he kept most of her really interesting things in there."

"Like what?" he asked, curious.

"Enchanted weapons, mostly, but also a collection of weird masks," she told him, not noticing when he froze. "I didn't like them; they gave me nightmares when I first saw them. Blaise and Alesan chased me around wearing them." She turned her head to stare at him fully. "Momma said they once belonged to very bad men. I was really scared when I met you, because you had a mask, too, but then you took it off. Momma said the masks gave the bad men power, and a really bad man wouldn't have taken it off and lost all that power, I think."

"You're too young to know what men in power will or will not do," he told her harshly, looking away. "How many of these does she have?"

"I don't know," she replied, taken aback. "Did I say something wrong?"

He sighed, then gave her the best smile he could, not wishing to alienate her, "Do not worry about it, Little Bee. I've simply had a few run-ins with bad men in masks. It does not mean that all who wear them are bad, though. You've seen your mother take them with her when she leaves, I'm sure? That is because they give power to whoever wears them, not just to bad people. Your mother uses that power for good."

"Like you?" she asked, hopping back up onto the bench.

"What does the book say next?" he asked, not bothering to answer, which Darva took to mean she had asked a silly question. She turned her attention to the story and began to puzzle it out, Bormah prompting her when she faltered.

_ "The boy went into the secret temple, within which an ancient tree of surpassing beauty grew. Around him, the Daughters of Kyne worked tirelessly, tending the garden and the large form in the center. The boy could not move when he spotted that form, frozen in terror. He had never seen a dragon so close. It was huge and gold, and oddly ungainly, with a swollen belly hidden by wings. He imagined it was full of unsuspecting Nords that had gotten too close and offended the dragon. It was in this moment of terror that one of the Daughters noticed him, and chastised him for being there, for this was a place of women. _

_ Then the dragon looked up, regarding him with glowing eyes the color of the Sea of Ghosts, and asked him to come closer. After an eternal moment in which he expected to be eaten, she told the others to let him stay, for he was yet a child, not a man. The women went about their business, and the dragon told him she was Lovaasunslaadhahnu, Kyne's First Daughter."_

Darva paused, puzzled by the long name. "Lovaasunslaadhahnu," he repeated when she asked. "It is made of the words _lovaas_, or song; _unslaad,_ unending; and _hahnu,_ which means dream. Altogether, it is a formal term for ocean, which is like a sea only infinitely vaster. Her name is also unusual because it is comprised of three dragon words with more than one syllable, and is the only name I ever heard like that. Mostly, she was called Kaandiistmon—Kyne's first daughter."

"You sound like you know a lot about her," Darva surmised. "Do you know her?"

There was a long pause as Bormah seemed to look inside himself, "She died a long time ago," he finally said.

"All the dragons died a long time ago," she reminded him, "They came back."

"Not this one," he said flatly. "The Firstborn of Akatosh had no love for the First Daughter of Kyne."

"Oh," she said, sounding sad. He was about to say something when the sound of someone calling her name floated up from downhill. "Aventus," she said. "Would you like to meet him?"

"No," Bormah said, much to her disappointment. "I do not want anyone to know I was here," he reminded her, standing. "I will come again, Little Bee," he promised, giving her a parting kiss on the forehead.

Aventus crested the hill to see her gazing at the spot where he had been, supposedly only sitting on a bench staring at a waterfall, for the book always went with Bormah. "Darva? What are you doing up here? You know Mother wants everyone close to the house for right now."

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked, not looking at him.

"I've seen you come down from here a few times," he said, and she glanced at him, normally sweet face blank.

"How long have you known I come up here?"

"A while. I didn't want to bother you, because sometimes I want to be alone, too," he told her.

"Have you told anyone?"

"Why would I?" he scoffed. "If you want to spend your time staring at waterfalls, more power to you."

Unexpectedly, her face broke into a bright smile. "Aventus, you're the best brother."

"Uh, thanks. I guess," he replied, bemused, sweeping his dark hair off his forehead as he watched her. His littlest sister hopped off the bench and came over, taking his hand as they headed downhill.

"Aventus, how do you supposed someone becomes a papa?" she asked.

The boy's face flushed painfully as he thought back to the rather embarrassing—and slightly intriguing—conversation Vilkas had had with him when the man returned home. "Uh, what do you mean?" he temporized.

Darva looked up and giggled at his face. "I mean, what makes the Papas papas and not uncles?"

"They're around more, I guess," he lied.

"Then Uncle Inigo would be a papa, not an uncle," she pointed out.

"I…" Aventus swallowed, then tried, "I suppose it's because they…love Momma." He felt like his face was going to burst into flames as he said it.

"Oh, I see. So if we wanted someone to become a papa, we would need for him to love Momma," she concluded.

"Well…" he couldn't believe this conversation was happening, "Sure, I guess. As long as Momma loves him back, and he likes all of us."

"Hmmm…" she said thoughtfully. If Aventus was forced to put a word to the expression on her face, he would have described it as "devious," but such a word did not seem to fit with his innocent little sister. "Do you think Argis is going to be a papa, or an uncle?" she asked him unexpectedly.

"It's not like we have a dozen papas," he finally said, rolling his eyes. "There's just the two, and I don't think we're likely to get any more. Besides, Argis is Mother's housecarl."

"I thought Lydia was her housecarl, and that's why Lydia isn't an auntie," she said, surprised.

"They're both housecarls," he told her, and her expression told him that a lot suddenly made sense to her.

"Then that scary woman with the crazy eyes really was a housecarl?" she asked incredulously.

"That was Rayya and yes, she was," Aventus confirmed with a shiver.

"I thought she was a hobgoblin," Darva revealed. "I thought she was going to eat me."

"There is no such thing as hobgoblins," he told her, even though he wasn't completely sure. Ysmir's journal had a drawing of something that looked an awful lot like a hobgoblin living on Solstheim. "Besides, if anything was going to eat us, it would have been werewolves or dragons. Nothing else would dare," he joked. All the kids knew their beloved Papas and Auntie were werewolves, but no one said anything, because they weren't really supposed to know. It was obvious, though; each and every one of them had swept dark or red wolf hair out of the corners that had no business being there otherwise. If too much of it was allowed to gather into clumps, Precious started to growl at it. If they left it after that, the ice wolf would pee on it, so they were pretty good at getting it swept up.

"And now we have vampires," Darva mused, lips pursed. "Miss Serana isn't an auntie; is she a housecarl?" Honey-bee queried after a long moment.

"No, she's a guest," Aventus told her. "She likes us, but she's not going to stay. She's only here because…because she needs to be."

"How come no one wants to talk about Beth?" she asked him, a little exasperated.

"Because no one wants to talk about her," he said flatly, letting her know the conversation was over. She sighed, and he sighed in return, then finally challenged her to a race the rest of the way home, which seemed to cheer her up. He let her win, because he was her best big brother.

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**Whew! Twenty-five chapters! I think this might get to fifty before I'm finished, but meh. I enjoy it. Managed to write another chapter even though I have been feeling wretched again this week. I have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow, so wish me luck! And no needles. I hate needles. They make me woozy and occasionally unconscious. But only when they touch me. Or someone lets me see them.**

**So, I didn't get my Oblivion Artist picture up yet, because I felt too crappy to finish it. I could submit it as-is, but the Temple of Miraak in the background looks like I fingerpainted it, and that bugs me too much. The deadline is the fourteenth, so...**

**Yeah, I'm one of those people.**

**Three new favorites and followers! Welcome!**

**Wynni: My sincerest apologies to your librarian for making you disrupt the sacrosanct quietude of the hall of tomes. Also, I hoped this chapter was enough Miraak to fulfill your weekly need.**

**Wicked Lullaby: I've always loved Aventus (the only child I cannot actually adopt in-game, darn it), and making him old enough to really think about and possibly go after his dream of being an assassin was just too tempting to resist. The introduction of Babette as a crush-interest took me by surprise (I just sort of typed it, then reread it, and wondered where _that_ came from), but I too really liked the idea when I drafted it up. Of course, it is kinda cradle-robbing, but then my main couple has a four-millennia age difference, so...**

**Roger509: Thank you, but at least some of that is ADD. :)**

**.**

**Next chapter: Ysmir and Serana have tea on the roof with lots of talking (at least some of which is about men), and the household starts to adjust to life with Serana **


	26. Chapter 26: Awkward Questions

"I think I need to come South more often," Serana said, eyes bright as they swept the sky, "The night is clear at the castle, but it's so cold you can't enjoy it for very long without being bundled up."

"I wasn't aware vampires had a problem with cold," Ysmir ventured, pouring and handing her friend a cup of tea. While vampires did not necessarily need to eat, they still enjoyed mortal foods, as she had found out the first time Marcurio pulled out a sweetroll in Serana's presence.

Serana looked thoughtful, "It's not so much that it harms us as we prefer warmth. For me, it reminds me that I am undead, and I can't help but feel that I'll never be warm again." As if to illustrate this, she took a sip of the tea, which was piping hot, and shivered with delight, smiling. It reminded Ysmir a bit of when she had seen a Khajiit imbibe a first taste of Moonsugar.

"Serana…" she trailed off, not knowing how to broach what was on her mind. Finally, she just decided to blurt it out, "Have you ever thought of becoming human again?"

The vampire looked up in surprise. "Not really. I've been this way for so long…" she looked down at the cup and added, dryly, "Though I suppose it would be nice not to always be so thirsty."

"Do you want to?" Ysmir asked, curious. "I'm not trying to push or pry, I just…Sometimes, when you say things like that, I wonder if you're really happy."

The vampire exhaled softly, turning to look back over Lake Ilinalta, which was so still the moons, stars, and northern lights were reflected as perfectly as a mirror, creating the illusion that beyond the house lay only sky, like a window to Aetherius. "I suppose I'm as happy as I can be," she said after a while. "All I really wanted was my family back together, but…well, we both know how that turned out. Mother is doing what she can to make it up to me, in her own way. I think…I don't want to make any hasty decisions, and I am _not_ willing to undergo the ritual to make me a Daughter of Coldharbour a second time," she shuddered, face waxy with more than moonlight. "If I became a human, it would be for good, because I'm not willing to become a weaker vampire and risk becoming a thrall to someone else."

"Speaking of which…" Ysmir trailed off, giving Serana a welcome opening to change the subject.

"The girl is not a Volkihar vampire, as you thought. Therefore, I cannot control her as well as I could one of my own bloodline. I am a pure-blooded vampire, however, so I can control her somewhat. She cannot escape now, even if we untied her. I've ordered her not to attack any member of the house, or to keep information from you when questioned."

Ysmir blinked. "That's it? I was under the impression a pure-blooded vampire could make a younger one their virtual slave, if they wanted."

Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Serana looked a bit uncomfortable with this assessment. "She's not a young vampire, Ysmir. I mean, she's younger than me, but she's been around a long while, and has a formidable will. I cannot imagine what kind of trouble she must have given her parents as a human child, but that stubbornness has only grown with centuries. If I was to truly enthrall her, she might fight it until she damaged herself. That's why many older vampires make alliances rather than enthralling each other—there is less watching your back. Not much less, but less. A friend turned enemy is still better than a slave that has broken their chains, especially one whose mind was broken by them."

The Dragonborn was the first to look away this time, a little appalled by this glimpse into the life of a vampire. Not that living within the higher ranks of the Thalmor was much better, but at least everyone pretended to like each other (mostly) and no one was in danger of losing themselves without...All right, in some cases it was exactly like living with the Thalmor. "Well," she said after a long pause, "at least we don't have to worry about her somehow shimmying out of the ropes, anymore."

"No," Serana confirmed, "You don't. She can even be allowed to walk around a bit. You may want to watch your eldest boy, though. He might mistake her not attacking as…well, her choosing not to attack, rather than being coerced not to."

"Still?" Ysmir groaned, rubbing her forehead as her temple began to throb. "What am I going to do with him?"

"I'd suggest sending him away until this business is over with," Serana told her. "Though I don't think he's likely to forget her. You did check him for bites, right?"

"I asked Argis to check. Aventus was furious at me, and embarrassed, but Lydia decided to tell him some stories of when we were in the Dawnguard together, and he seems to have accepted that it was necessary. He hasn't forgiven us, though."

"I was surprised to see him here. Argis, I mean," Serana confessed, pouring herself a second cup of tea. "I got the impression that he loved the Reach."

Ysmir smiled, "He does, but I think he was bored. Also, he missed Lucia. She lived in Markarth for a while before I had this place finished. I didn't mean to keep her there so long—that city isn't safe, in my opinion—but…I don't know. It's like she gentled him, or something."

Serana chuckled, "And after all that talk about not being a babysitter!"

The redhead flushed, "Right…you were there for that."

The vampire laughed aloud at her friend's embarrassment, and ducked the mage's mock-punch. "It was nice of them to clear out the tower storeroom for me," she said reflectively. "I expected to have a bedroll on the floor, not an actual bed."

Grinning, Ysmir replied, "That would be the work of the twins. They're usually thoughtful like that. Lydia would have just offered you her bed—then Argis would have insisted Aela take his, even though she prefers to sleep outside."

"She likes sleeping outside?" Serana asked incredulously. "Not even in a tent?"

"Not even in a tent," Ysmir confirmed, a little amused at her friend's reaction. She had traveled with Serana for a year, and had a few adventures with her after that, but this was the first time she had truly seen the vampire act like a princess.

"Is that why she smells so strange?" Serana asked, mostly to herself. "Her and the two men…do the twins sleep outside?"

"No, they sleep with me," Ysmir replied thoughtlessly, then caught Serana's wide-eyed gaze. "What?"

"Both of them?" the vampire asked, "All of you in the same…" she hesitated, "room?"

"Bed," she corrected, wanting to get this over with. "We share a bed. All three of us. Usually."

She had the rare pleasure of seeing her friend completely flummoxed. "I…did not expect that of you, Ysmir. I mean, some of the Clan do so, but they are usually older and a bit…jaded."

"I don't think I'm jaded," she replied defensively. "I just…well, there's the dragon thing, and the twins share pretty much everything else. And it's not like any of us intended it to happen it just…did."

"How?" Serana asked with impish curiosity, actually leaning forward with interest.

Ysmir thought she must be glowing, she was blushing so hard. "Well…Farkas and I were lovers for a few months when one day after we had cleared out a dragon lair Vilkas barged in, holding this big rose staff and drunk off his mind—"

"A rose staff?" Serana interrupted, sitting up. "Like the one Marcurio was holding that night he came back to camp and asked us both to marry him?"

"Just like, now that you mention it," Ysmir replied, surprised. She had mostly forgotten the thing after the embarrassing scene afterwards. "I am starting to get very nervous about any tale that begins with 'I met this man named Sam.'"

"When was this? I remember you mentioning Farkas before, but you weren't lovers, and I distinctly remember you mentioning that you thought his brother hated you," Serana queried, tipping the teapot and not receiving anything. She shrugged and put it down, lacing her slender fingers together over her knee.

"I thought he did. It took me a long time to figure out that Vilkas doesn't like anyone when he meets them. He regards just about everyone with suspicion at first, except probably Farkas, and even then they had nine months in a womb together to kick it out," she said dryly.

"Might prove troublesome if you decide to marry one of them," the vampire pointed out, hair sweeping over her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side, obviously digging for something.

"I wouldn't," Ysmir snapped, then tried to relax. "They know that. We're all friends, and we enjoy each other's company but…marriage isn't for me, and they know that. They wouldn't want to marry me anyway; I'm too independent."

"I don't think a member of the Companions would scorn a woman just for being independent," Serana pointed out, obviously disappointed. "What do you have against marriage anyway, Ysmir? I mean, I know why I wouldn't want…the whole thing with temples…but why do you shun it? Don't you want to give your children a father?"

"They have two perfectly capable fathers," Ysmir said tartly, standing. The image of Miraak, his face holding such pleasure when she told him of Darva's first Shout, flitted through her mind. She forcibly pushed it away. It couldn't happen. Not him. Not ever. "It's late, and I've been all over Skyrim this last week. I'm going to get some sleep."

Serana frowned, "Ysmir, I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's alright," the woman lied, taking a breath and trying to make the words true. "Just…I'm never unclear to my lovers, Serana; they know what they're getting themselves into, and what they're not. This is just how I am. Good night."

"Good night," the vampire replied, quite taken aback. She watched her friend disappear down the ladder with a sense of regret, turning to look down into the lake as clouds slowly rolled in to obscure the stars and moons. The northern lights still shown through, giving the night a greenish hue.

Somewhere in the forests, wolves howled.

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* * *

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"You're heading out again?" Darva cried out in dismay as she peeked into her mother's room and caught her packing away a few freshly mended mage robes, carefully checking them for pins as she went. The little girl's eyes were wide and faintly accusing, and her blond curls were still disheveled from sleep. "You just got back!"

"I'm not heading out today, sweetie," Ysmir assured her, walking over and sweeping the child into her arms. "I'm just…being prepared."

"You're away more than here," her daughter complained, pouting. Darva could pull off pouting very well, Ysmir reflected, unlike her mother, who only managed to look like she was squinting with a stung lip. It must be something she inherited from her father, although for the life of her Ysmir could not picture Miraak pouting.

"Not by choice, love," Ysmir assured her, abandoning packing in favor of heading down to breakfast. Her other children were still straggling in, bleary eyed, but Argis and Lydia were halfway through their meal, and Runa had apparently been in the mood to fry up griddle cakes, judging by the large stack of them on a platter in the very center of the table. Ysmir was pleasantly surprised to see that someone had either found or made a bottle of maple syrup since the last time they ate it all.

"Watchers are back," Aela greeted her as she walked in the door, the twins close behind her.

Ysmir rolled her eyes, "When will they give up?"

Farkas was the only one who answered, and with a shrug rather than actual words, as Runa came back out of the kitchen with a platter of ham slices and three wolfie noses twitched. Ysmir smothered a grin in a piece of bread as they all sat and immediately reached for the platter, and her daughter yanked it away with a stern look, serving them each a few slices herself to make sure they left some for everyone else.

"Where are they this time?" Ysmir asked, setting Darva in her usual chair (the one with the thick book on it) and putting a bowl of porridge before her, giving her a stern look when the girl would have reached for the nut-cakes.

"On the northern ridge, across the lake," Vilkas answered around a mouthful of ham and hard-boiled egg. Somehow, he managed to answer without either showing the food he was chewing, or spitting any of it out. She wished her sons would acquire that skill, since she didn't seem to be getting anywhere trying to get them to not speak with their mouths full. "It seems they bought a bigger spyglass, just for the occasion."

"What occasion?" Serana asked, coming in from the back room while toweling her hair dry. She hadn't put on her armor yet, and the vermillion tunic she wore clung to her damply in some spots. Her charcoal pants ended at the ankle over bare feet; Ysmir had never seen her look so casual.

"The Blades are spying on the house," the Dragonborn filled her in as Farkas goggled, Aela raised a hand in greeting, and Vilkas tensed all over. Argis stood and offered her his spot, taking his empty plate into the kitchen.

"I do wish they would stop," Lydia sighed, following his lead. "Even though I know they're probably only watching for Paarthurnax, I _hate _the feeling of someone watching me."

"Why do you let them persist?" Serana asked curiously, settling herself across from Aela and taking a sweetroll for formality's sake while Vilkas continued to stare intently. She raised an eyebrow at him, "Do you mind? Lydia's not the only one who doesn't like to be stared at."

Blaise snickered, but subsided immediately with the dark look Vil gave him, hard enough to even stop Alesan mid-yawn as he slid into his seat, giving his brother a bleary-eyed questioning glance. Both of them got a plate and started loading it up in an unusually meek manner.

"I didn't know vampires ate," he said, and Ysmir glanced upward, silently beseeching Stendarr for patience.

"Who doesn't like sweetrolls?" she asked with a rather good impression of innocence, popping a piece into her mouth and letting her eyelids flutter closed in pleasure as the sugar hit her tongue. Oh dear, Ysmir thought, noting the familiar sparkle in her amber eyes, the slight upward quirk of her lips. It seemed Serana had decided Vil would be fun to prod, and the werewolf did not respond well to prodding. Then again, neither had Isran, but the leader of the Dawnguard couldn't change into a seven-foot ravaging beast when he was miffed.

Aventus, who had been staring pensively into his porridge this entire time, finally put in a word, "Do you think Beth is hungry by now?"

Everyone paused, glancing at the boy, who looked up from his bowl with a slightly rebellious expression. "I know she likes food, and I haven't seen anyone take any in there. Do you intend to starve her?"

"No," Serana said gently, but firmly, as she put the sweetroll down. "That's partially why I'm here. She's not going to starve. The worst that's going to happen for now is boredom."

"So you're bringing her food?" he asked, his gaze focused firmly on her now.

"She's bringing her blood," Ysmir put in bluntly, and saw Sofie blanch and push her plate away, appetite lost.

There was a long pause as the teenager gazed back down at his bowl, obviously thinking furiously. "May I help?" he finally asked.

Ysmir felt her jaw drop open. "No," Vil and Aela said together. Farkas was too busy choking to reply. Serana, however, had a rather neutral expression, her eyes flickering down to the table before anyone could catch her gaze.

"I see," he said, then pushed back from the table. "Excuse me," he added, then headed outside.

The Dragonborn put her face in her hands, rubbing the bridge of her nose as the all-too-frequent headache threatened to return. "Please tell me this isn't a teenage thing. I don't know if I can go through seven more years of this—for each of them."

"Can I be excused, too?" Sofie asked, still looking a bit green. "I'm feeling a bit…queasy."

"Take a piece of fruit or something if you get hungry later," Ysmir advised.

"If Beth eats blood does that mean that she'll try to eat Aventus if he goes in there?" Darva asked artlessly, glancing about, "Because I don't want her to do that."

"She won't," Serana and Vil said at the same time, looked at each other, then away. Farkas finally managed to swallow whatever it was he had been choking on, with the assistance of Aela's fist pounding on his back as she reminded him that humans actually had to _chew _their food.

Lydia came back in, a bit of hay in her hair. "Courier came by," she said, handing a message to Ysmir. "Looks like Jarl Season is starting again."

"Jarl Season?" Serana repeated, amused.

"You know; when the bandits start attacking more caravans to prepare for winter and suddenly every Jarl needs my assistance immediately. Jarl Season. It's a bit early for it, but bandits don't like to send out itineraries." Ysmir said absently, unfolding the paper. She froze, then stood abruptly. "It's from Brelyna in Winterhold; she says Augie wants to speak to me."

Vil's frown deepened—which was slightly impressive, considering how hard he had already been frowning—but it was his brother who asked, "Augie?" with mere curiosity, forgoing the suspicion his twin would have put in the name.

"A friend. He has visions. He wouldn't have called unless he saw something that I needed to know." Her eyes flickered to Darva, and both men's faces lit with understanding.

"You said you weren't leaving today!" Darva protested, round face anguished.

"I'm sorry, Honey-bee; this is important, and it's already been almost a week for the courier to get here." She bent, kissing her daughter on the forehead. "I'll try to get all my business done quickly, so that I don't have to leave again until the jarls call me out."

"Take me with you," the little girl begged.

Ysmir sighed. "I can't this time, sweetheart. But I'll let you know the moment I can come back. I promise."

.

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**Hi, everyone! I hope you've had a good week. I'm slowly getting better after seeing the doctor, and managed to write half a chapter. I'm a few chapters ahead of posting still, but I usually need that time to revise and check my grammar anyway.**

**My contest piece for Oblivion-Artist on deviantart is posted! I'm rather happy with how it turned out, other than not being able to put Ysmir's flame cloak in there. It's straight from the story, other than that. From Chapter 29, for those of you eager for more Miraak/Ysmir scenes. I'm sorry there's not more of them; they're stubborn about each other. Feel free to check it out: fav . me / d7yh7hp If that doesn't work, just go to deviantart, type "Ysmir and Miraak" and it's pretty much the only non-literature thing that comes up. I would love to hear your thoughts on it! Also, I was thinking of putting a cropped version as the "cover" of this, but I don't know how many people find this story by my little rose and dagger vector. Opinions, anyone?**

**Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Wynni: Yes, the story Darva is reading is Miraak's own. He's not too sure how to relate to a child, but he wants her to know more about him. Hahnu, being the first dragon he ever met, was a big influence in his life, and that is why she is there. Well, partially. ;)**

**.**

**Next chapter: Ysmir finally tells Odahviing about her past, and Babette and Aventus get to talk. Sort of. **


	27. Chapter 27: Caged

Odahviing was not thrilled to be called upon once again, but since it had something to do with Darva, he relented. The condition, however, was that they depart immediately afterward for Miraak's Temple, provided the news did not require them to do something else urgently.

The skies were becoming familiar to Ysmir, and not for the first time she wished for wings of her own. There had been a few times before she learned to control her fire magic—just about the only legacy from The Bastard's line she appreciated—that she had felt as if she had them. The first two times she had summoned her Flame Cloak and ignited the world around her she had felt spectral wings rising from her shoulders. She had felt powerful, at a time when nothing made sense and she was at the whim of circumstance. Or possibly the Divines—she wasn't quite sure how else she could have blundered into Skyrim right in the path of an Imperial Scout.

Well, at the time she was fairly out-of-sorts. She'd had a concussion from Inigo's skooma-addled attack and had just snuck out of a Temple of Kynareth, where the priestesses had been adamant on her staying in bed until she was healed. Being little less than a year since she had escaped the grasp of the Thalmor, Ysmir had assumed they were only keeping her there to turn her back over to them.

She smiled wanly, gazing down at Whiterun as it passed below them. That skinny, distrustful waif might as well be a different person entirely. Of course, if the Thalmor figured out who she was there would be hell to pay. Not only had she betrayed her bloodline and abandoned her mission, she had killed a very useful pawn in the Empire and gone on to become some kind of legendary hero and a general thorn in their side. The Thalmor handled betrayal much like they handled Talos worship—though the torture lasted quite a bit longer on someone who had been one of their own.

"You are shifting quite a bit, Dovahkiin. _Fosro folaas?_ Something bothers you," Odahviing observed.

"I'm fine," she yelled, the words ripped from her mouth by the winds.

_"Zu'u bolog wah dumed._ You do not fool me, Dovahkiin," he reproached, swooping down to land on a mountainside with nothing on it. This was necessary whenever he carried humans, for the air aloft was thin, and he had found that if he landed every once in a while they were less likely to pass out and fall off. Of course, he had yet to have this problem with Ysmir. "Now, tell me what is troubling you so."

"You already know my current problem," she pointed out.

_"Vahzah,_ I know your current problem, but this is an unease I have sensed from you before. This _arokon_ is seated in your soul like an old wound. Like a bone that healed without being snapped back into place, you may have to re-break it to set it right."

She sighed, seeing that there was no avoiding this. "Odahviing…do you ever think about the past?" she ventured.

_"Ustiid?_ From time to time. Some dwell on it more than others, but I prefer to look forward. The past is gone, but we must still deal with the future," he replied, lowering his head so that she could dismount.

Ysmir let her gaze wander over the woods below them. Skyrim in winter was beautiful and harsh together, more so than in any other place she had ever been. The skeletal branches of the few non-evergreen trees she saw rustled slightly in the mountain breeze, their tiniest branches interweaving to form intricate patterns against the slate-grey sky. "I haven't told many people this, but the people who raised me…they did not think of me as a person. I was a tool, a commodity to them. About a year before Alduin returned I escaped them, although it wasn't necessarily what I meant to do at the time." A breath burst from her lungs as she realized she was rambling slightly. "I was scared, so scared, when I faced my first dragon. I was frightened when I fought Alduin. I've been in more battles than I can count, and I've learned not to be afraid of them. I'm not afraid of death, Odahviing," she looked up at him hopelessly, "but the thought of _them_ finding me, discovering that I escaped them? That terrifies me as nothing else does."

The red dragon tilted his head, studying her. For a heart-stopping moment she wondered if he thought less of her. She certainly did. No matter how mighty she became, the great Dragonborn, she was still reduced to being that frightened child at the thought of being returned to the Thalmor.

_"Zu'u koraav._ You were brought up in a cage. This explains much about you." He moved to settle himself a bit more comfortably and lowered his head to gaze into her eyes. "Paarthurnax has told you of the dragon caught in that trap you set for me? I feared greatly when you caught me so. I was humiliated and terrified I would be as he was. Numinex, who resided in Dragonsreach went mad, unable to see the sky or feel the wind, subjected to the whims of those who held him. So were you raised. You are a _dovah_, and to fear being forced to return to your cage is natural. It may never leave you."

For a long moment she couldn't speak, tears pricking her eyes. "It shames me."

_"Zu'u mindok._ We _dov_ find it difficult to forget that which broke our pride. But you are here now, and you have found your _thu'um._ You will not be imprisoned so again, for you have but to call my name and I will come for you, even if I must rend earth to get to you."

She ducked her head, struggling to get her expression under control. _"Nox hi,_ Odahviing, but it is not just for myself that I fear anymore. They would slaughter my friends, and enslave my children. I don't even know what they would do with Darva, but I can make a few guesses, and I would kill her myself before I let even one of them befall her, if I had no other choice."

He mantled his wings a bit in surprise at the fierce words, his eyes widening. "Such despair. I never thought to see it in you, Ysmir. That you would kill your child rather than have her fall into their hands…how likely is this fear to pass? _Hi lost zey havaas._ Your worry has infected my mind."

Ysmir shook her head, "That's the thing; it gets less likely every year. When I ran…everything behind me burned. There was no reason for them to even suspect that I survived. And since then…I've had my elven features removed to a casual glance. Someone would have to look hard to see traces of any kind of elf in me."

_"Fahliil?_ So it was elves that raised you? It has been a few weeks at least since I ate an elf."

She stared at him, then burst out laughing. "You're right; I suppose I need not fear them as much, anymore. Still…"

_"Krosis," _he said sympathetically, "That fear will remain, Dovahkiin, until you are able to face it head on. I do not know how you can do so without endangering those who have come to depend on you. _Votrul_…it is not a simple problem."

"But that is," she noted, nodding to the troll that had just emerged from the trees to roar with rage at the sight of them, jumping about and flinging snow.

"Simple indeed. _Ufiik _do not taste very good. Therefore, I suggest we continue on our way." Odahviing lowered his head so that she could climb up on the thinnest part of his neck. _"Kos ahst forveyk. _Do not worry, Dovahkiin. You are not the first of the Dragon Blood to bear the shame of imprisonment. We are creatures of the _lok,_ and once we have suffered the loss of our freedom, we will forever fear it. _Faal Sizaan Gein_ never ceased trying to escape Dragonsreach until they broke his wings. Durnehviir allowed you to summon him to see the skies of _Keizaal _once more. Alessia worked tirelessly to overthrow those who enslaved her. And you have seen for yourself the lengths the Allegiance Guide went to in order to escape Oblivion."

"He didn't go as far as he was planning," she said without thinking, recalling that instant she sat frozen under his gaze. He had been the first to move, and his action hadn't been to finish her off, though it easily could have been.

Odahviing surprised her by laughing. "He was foolish to think he could kill you—the _dovah_ in him is too strong for that. You were fighting, and instinct took over."

"Instinct?" she echoed, not having a clue what he meant.

The red dragon more laughed out his fire breath than Shouted, leaving the troll quite the worse for wear at his mirth as he rose higher into the skies. _"Geh,_ instinct, Dovahkiin. You two had been locked in battle long-standing. How else do you think a female _dovah_ decides if a male is worthy of her?"

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* * *

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Babette stared up at the older vampire suspiciously. "What is this?" she asked, holding up her unbound hands and stretching out the kinks that days of being in the same position had left.

"I'm not going to carry you around in that chair," Serana replied, turning and walking to the door.

Without thought Babette started to follow, then halted and scowled. "So you're taking me for a walk, like a pet?"

"Don't be stupid," Serana replied, putting a hand on her hip, "No one thinks of you as a pet. If anything, most of the household sees you as a menace. Unfortunately, you're a menace that is starting to smell, and Ysmir doesn't want you to suffer unduly during your stay."

The little vampire's eyebrows rose. "She is aware that I'm here to kill her, right?"

"Of course," Serana replied with a little smile, then headed out of the room. Babette followed unwillingly, fighting each step until she was red-faced from effort and the older vampire stopped and sighed. "I can leave you in that chair, but you'll be a lot more comfortable clean." After a few moments of deliberation the smaller vampire walked forward of her own accord.

The main hall of the house was much bigger than she had thought walking in that first night, and she looked around shamelessly as Serana led her down some steps and into the dining room. No one seemed to be about. The hall was lit mostly with enchanted mage lights rather than sunlight, still both vampires breathed a small sigh of relief when they climbed down into the cellar that appeared to be half mead room, half temple, which Babette found interesting and semi-amusing. She gave the shrines of the Nine a wide berth as they went through to a practice room, then turned right to a little hallway. Steam billowed out the door Serana opened, and Babette glanced around. The room was stone with a cone-shaped ceiling designed to catch condensation in little rivulets that ran down to a drain. The stone seemed have been cut as perfectly as possible to avoid having mortar exposed, and the seams seemed to be painted over with resin to keep the joints from getting rotten.

"This, so they tell me, is the girl's room," Serana said pleasantly, opening a small wooden door liberally coated with more resin. There were three of them, one on each side of the cone-ceilinged room, with the entrance behind them.

Babette stepped inside.

Steam danced around them, slightly smelling of soap and wood. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and she saw steps going up to a square stone basin fully large enough for several people and deep enough that the water would be up to her chest. The sound of running water nearby told her that it probably sat adjacent to an underground stream leading into the lake.

"I'm not sure if they came up with this system, or if Ysmir found it in one of her books," Serana was saying, crouching to open a grate of Dwarven metal—probably salvaged from a ruin—and poke at the fire beneath it. "Sofie volunteered one of her dresses for you, so you don't have to put your dirty clothes back on. She's offered to wash and mend the one you're wearing, as well."

Babette blinked. "She…she what?"

Her keeper gave her an unreadable look. "She's offered to help take care of you."

"Why?" Babette asked incredulously, unable to fathom why the girl would do any such thing.

"Oh, it's not just her," Serana stated, standing and dusting off her hands on her pants. "Aventus asked to bring you food, Darva keeps trying to get us to let her bring you honey cakes, Blaise and Alesan keep trying to climb up to your window, and Runa and Ma'Rakha are trying to get you allowed out in the house by offering to watch you."

The assassin just stared at her, stunned. "But…I came here to kill their mother. Did no one tell them?"

"Yes, but they think that once you realize what a great person she is, you'll stop," Serana revealed.

Babette snorted, then tossed her head to get her hair out of her face, but it was so damp after just a few moments in the room that it clung to her cheek. Serana smiled a little. "I'll leave you to it. Don't take too long," she advised, heading past the girl and out the door.

Well, it wasn't like there was an escape rout in here, or anything. Unless she felt like setting herself on fire, anyway. Or trying to drown herself. In any case, she wasn't ready to meet her Dark Father quite yet.

So the children still cared what happened to her, did they? Babette pondered this as she extracted herself from the filthy, sodden dress she wore and slipped into the blessedly hot water, gasping at the feel of it. That was…unexpected. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, she might be able to find a way to use that to her advantage. On the other…a soft smile curled up the corners of her lips, then disappeared in a scowl. What did she want with a bunch of human children, anyway? She was long past wanting to play, unless it was the way a hunter toyed with their pray. She had all the family she needed or wanted in the Dark Brotherhood.

Besides, there was no way she could leave Ysmir alive.

Thoughts whirling, the little assassin scrubbed herself pink, rinsing her hair several times. Her dress was ruined, she reflected as she glanced at it. That Ice Spike had torn right through the shoulder, and it was filthy with blood. Scowling again, because she had liked that dress, the girl scrubbed at her neck.

Then paused.

Her fingers trailed down the sharp line of the chain to the amulet Aventus had given her. Cupping it in her palms, she gazed at her reflection within it. Her irises were lost to the ruby, but her face was clear enough; pale, slightly gaunt. Her lashes and pupils were like dark holes bore into the stone. Impatient with herself, she grasped it and prepared to tug it from her neck, but stopped again, strangely unable to fulfill the motion.

Her enthraller rapped sharply on the door, asking if she were done yet. With a sigh of resignation, Babette climbed out of the water, slightly surprised at how cool the steam-filled air felt after being submerged. The dress Sofie had given her was folded on a chest not too far away, out of the path of the steam. Babette changed quickly, finding it a fair fit, even if Sofie's arms were a bit longer than hers. She looped the sash into place and headed out the door, looking up at Serana.

"The dress is hopeless," was all she said.

"I figured it would be," Serana replied. "I'll throw it away before Sofie tries to fix it. She'll feel badly if she can't, I think."

Babette nodded. That certainly fit with her estimation of the girl. She was too sensitive by half.

The vampires walked out of the bathing room, finding the hall significantly cooler. Neither shivered. Serana placed a gentle hand behind Babette's back and she tensed, but the woman was only pushing her forward. Scowling again, the assassin walked to the practice room, only to halt in consternation.

Aventus was there.

He didn't notice her at first. He was bent over, wrenching throwing daggers out of a target. As if he felt them watching he turned, his face going still when he saw them. For a long moment they simply stared at each other, not moving.

"Hello, Aventus," Serana finally said, breaking the moment.

He nodded, "Miss Serana," he replied politely. "May I talk with Beth—I mean, Babette—for a moment?"

"I don't think your mother would like it if I left you two alone," Serana began, but Babette snorted.

"You have me under enough restrictions to make a mammoth balk. If he wants to say something, let him get it off his chest," she snapped, giving the woman a withering look before glaring fiercely at the boy. "What is it? You want to know how I could do this? How I could possibly be a member of the Dark Brotherhood? Or perhaps you want to ask if I really intend on killing your mother. Well, I do. It's my contract, and I'm not going home in disgrace."

He regarded her for a long moment as she glowered at him, then finally asked, "Are you alright?"

The glower vanished as her mouth dropped open, not knowing what to think. Seconds passed before she was able to respond. "I'm an _assassin._ A murder. I'm here to kill someone you care about; doesn't that _bother_ you? Why in Oblivion do you care if I'm alright?"

Aventus shrugged, looking sort of helpless. "I don't know. But I do."

"You…" Babette struggled to force words around the mysterious lump in her throat. "You _stupid_ boy! You imbecilic _child!_ I am a killer! I'd as soon eat you as look at you! Don't you dare say you care about me! Don't you understand what I am? Don't you get why I'm here?"

He swallowed but firmed his shoulders. "You're here because someone wants my mother dead. Wants it bad enough to pay for it."

"Yes, you moron, but I'm also here because I _like_ doing it! It doesn't matter to me who I kill, as long as I get to! I. Am. A monster," she spat, desperately trying to get him to understand and not even knowing why she bothered.

"Perhaps," he said, voice only shaking slightly, "But I still care."

"Well…don't!" she spat, feeling her face contort into a vampiric snarl. The boy flinched, then firmed, his gaze never straying. "I used you," she hissed, reaching up and tearing the amulet from her neck. "I befriended you only to get close to my mark. If needed, I would have killed you to get her guard down! _That's_ the kind of person I am! Not some…some simpering girl who spends her time playing and picking flowers!"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips for a moment, shocking her into silence. "You still would have picked flowers," he told her assuredly. "A blind person could tell you like Alchemy." Aventus shook his head, looking down a moment, waves of dark hair swinging momentarily before his gaze rose abruptly to lock on hers, something she had been strenuously avoiding. "I really don't care that you're a vampire. I don't care that you're an assassin. I just…care about you."

Babette gave a slight sound of frustration—she wouldn't call it a sob, exactly—threw the pendant at his head and raced for the ladder to the main house, climbing up so quickly she was nothing but a blur. She meant to run right outside, then into the woods where she could escape, but the binds the Volkihar had placed on her mind were too strong, and she found herself right back where she had started, in the smelly little room with a chair and nothing else. Only, now it had more. There was a small bed there, and several books. Not a pallet on the floor, with nothing to occupy her time. Not the prison it was before. Now it was a bedroom, with books. There were even a few changes of clothes folded neatly on the bed, and a small, well-worn doll half-hidden in the folds.

The small, unwarranted comforts shocked her no end, and she glared at the room so hard it should have caught fire, but she had no such abilities.

"He's going to be a heartbreaker in a couple of years," Serana stated, catching up with her. "I wonder where he learned to smolder like that?"

"Oh, go pester a dragon," Babette muttered.

"Let's not ruin a second dress with bloodstains," the older vampire said, not unkindly, as she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at Babette's cheeks.

The assassin jerked her face away from the woman's reach. "It's just water dripping from my hair," she said.

"Right," Serana said agreeably, handing the red-stained handkerchief to her. "No tears at all."

"None," Babette replied fiercely, wiping at her own face. But long after her hair had dried, the red drops kept coming.

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**Interesting week. I wrote four chapters in the last three days. I hope you guys like a bit of angst now and then, because you're getting some around the early forties. On the other hand, that is when things start coming to a boil, so it's kind of a "release the hounds!" of the plot bunny variety. I've been spending the last few days at my hopefully-future-mother-in-laws for medical reasons, and she lives on the lakeshore so the scenery has been fantastic. I love watching the swans (not being near them, because they're mean buggers, but they are pretty to look at). It's also near an airforce base, and I think I may have seen a Blackhawk fly over. **

**Welcome new followers and favorites! Thank you!**

**Wynni: Sam is the instigator of hilarity. Someone should engage him to a Hagraven, see how he likes it. **

**Wicked Lullaby: Yeah, I always saw Serana as the kind to poke pins at people's balloon of self-righteousness. Her very existence turns a stereotype or four on it's ear, and I always loved watching her interact with Isran. Vilkas has the same rigid moral code sometimes (cough*werewolfhypocrite*cough), so I knew right away they would come into conflict. Farkas was mostly staring at her wet shirt, sad to say. **

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**Next chapter: Ysmir visits the Augur of Dunlain, who has been having freaky visions again. Serana and Vilkas have a bit of an argument, and the Silver Hand show up. **


	28. Chapter 28: Revelations

Rather than run the gauntlet of greeting her fellow mages, Ysmir had elected to enter the College through the Midden Dark entrance, an out-of-the way opening in the ice that she didn't think anyone else really knew about. If they had, the apprentices would get out for mischief far more often, and she wouldn't have to kill so many blighted frostbite spiders every time she used it. Then again, the story of the missing apprentices was one whispered by every new generation of aspiring mages, trying to scare each other with ghost stories around the soft blue light of the magelight well that centered their hall. It could just be that the younger mages feared the Midden Dark was haunted.

"You're here," the Augur's weary, deep voice echoed against the ice around her as if he were talking from the bottom of a well.

Ysmir jumped. "Honestly, can't you just wait until I'm closer to scare me out of my skin?"

"Apologies," he replied, and remained silent until she had reached his room, which had the opposite effect than she wanted, making the frosty air shiver with the anticipation of his voice in the echoing silence.

"What did you need?" she asked trepidatiously, dropping onto her sitting stone without bothering to warm it.

"I had a vision," he replied in his ghostly hollow voice, "A vision of a realm beside Oblivion, where rivers of light and memory rush past each other like currents in the sea. They parted, as if around an island, and there rested the World Eater, head bowed, shackled and held by six chains."

Ysmir stared at him, wide-eyed. "So he's alive?"

"No. And yes. He is outside life, trapped in a pocket between ages. His chains are forged of light and dark, the links those souls he had devoured. And half are tied to Nirn at three points in time and space."

The Dragonborn frowned. "What do you mean, Augie?"

The Augur was silent a moment, as if picking his words. Sometimes Ysmir wondered if speaking was difficult for him, as his cadence was rather odd and his speech ponderous, and often he would disappear for days after doing so. "These three chains reach to Skuldafn eight years ago, the top of the Throat of the World ages ago, and at some point in the future. I cannot see where it is tied. The remaining chains culminate in three pillars, like incandescent Standing Stones. One is you, Ysmir. I can sense you from it. The others, I cannot say."

She closed her eyes, fighting the heavy sense of foreboding that clawed at her, trying to overwhelm her ability to reason. Part of her earliest training was in pushing back such emotions, but it was much harder now to dismiss the fear when it was not simply for her survival, but for Darva's. "Three points where he is defeated," she surmised, "And the pillars would be those that defeated him. So…one would probably be Hakon One-Eye, Felldir the Old, and Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, another is me, and the third…wouldn't you sense if it was Darva?" she asked, a little desperately.

"No, I would not. I have met with you numerous times, Ysmir. I am attuned to your energy. I have never met your child. I could not tell unless I spent time with her, and she has much growing to do. It could be she changes completely from childhood to adulthood. There is no way to tell." There was a long pause, as if he were drawing in breath. "There are…symbols on the Stones, as on their physical counterparts."

"What symbols?" she asked warily.

"Each is marked with the Akaviri symbol for Dragonborn."

Her heart sank. "So it couldn't be the original Nords who defeated them. They were Tongues, not Dragonborn." She frowned as something else occurred to her, "I'm the only Dragonborn to have defeated Alduin."

Another pause. "There are three Dragonborn now," he said gently.

She stared at him, so many emotions roiling inside her she felt sick with them. "No. No way. He was supposed to defeat Alduin when he first lived. He gave up that chance. He's a self-serving, egotistical tyrant that chose power over responsibility. There is no way he would choose to do what's right now."

"Even for his daughter?" Augie asked, flooring her.

"He doesn't even know Darva," she countered. Augie was silent. "Is that all you saw?" she asked him after a few uncomfortable moments.

"Yes," came the response, oddly breathy for a being that didn't breath.

"Then…I should go. I still have to go see His Highness before I can go home, and I just want to get it over with," she muttered the last under her breath.

"Ysmir," the Augur called, surprising her. "I also…wanted to thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

"Brelyna. She is…quite pleasant to speak with. She comes down every few days to read to me."

A small smile curled the edges of her lips up. "You're welcome. I'm glad you two are getting along."

"She worries about you," he added. "Why did you never tell her you were the Dragonborn?"

"I didn't want people here to know. It was bad enough when they had me summoning my Flame Cloak every other day so they could figure out how I could do so without actually casting a spell or being Dunmer; could you imagine what a mess it would be if they had me Shouting to study it? And the dark looks if I refused!" She actually managed a chuckle. "Once, you told me that too much knowledge would never bring happiness. No one has bothered to inform them."

"She was hurt, learning it from me," he said, and she winced guiltily. "I will…tell her it was not a slight on your part."

"Thank you. I really don't want to go upstairs to find her and apologize. I'd be here all day."

"And much into the night and tomorrow," he affirmed. "The Thalmor advisor wishes to study you more. He senses something about you is not right."

She shuddered. "Best to avoid that then. Ancano may be arrogant, but he's too clever by half." Actually, that described too many men in her life, nowadays.

"When you go to the island, have the Red Dragon land on the summit overlooking the city." Augie advised. "Miraak will be roused by his follower's alarm."

She frowned, "City?"

There was a sound suspiciously like a snicker that shocked her almost as much as his words. "Yes, Dragonborn. City."

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"What do you think you're doing?"

Serana glanced to the side of the door she had just walked through at the angry, low rumble that greeted her from the side of the doorframe. She plastered a rather bland look on her face when she saw it was Vilkas hissing at her. Unlike the other times she had seen him, he was wearing his armor, and she wondered if that was a rather unsubtle hint that he thought her a threat. "I think I'm taking care of a younger vampire, as asked. Why? What do you think I'm doing?" she asked.

His silver-grey eyes flashed and she almost smiled. She could certainly see what Ysmir liked about the man; he was all fire and ice behind those strange eyes. All three of the Companions had those eyes, not just the twins, and something about it pricked at her consciousness, but she couldn't get it to come to the front. "Aventus," was all he said.

Serana sighed, real sympathy crossing her face and taking the man by surprise. She almost sighed again; did he think her unfeeling? How could anyone not be sympathetic to what the boy was going through? "I wasn't expecting him to be there."

Anger flooded his features again, but the faint sound of a foot scuffing behind them made him pause. Serana froze, eyes widening slightly as she stared. He glanced back at her face and snorted in impatience, grabbing her forearm and towing her out the door and into the overcast day as she hastily pulled her hood up. He didn't stop until they were well away from the house, and had been walking for some time down a back road she hadn't expected, cutting through the hills beyond the lake. He halted so abruptly that she stumbled, casting her arm away from him like he couldn't bear to touch her. "You're a vampire," he stated, crossing his arms across the breastplate of the strange armor he wore, "you should have heard him in there long before you reached the practice room."

Ah, that. "My attention was on Babette," she replied, echoing his pose, "and, if you haven't noticed, there is quite a lot of water noise around that bathing section. What about you? No ordinary human would have heard that Khajiit child trying to eavesdrop as he was just now."

If her response surprised him, he didn't show it. All he looked was irritated. "You knew he was there; why did you bring the little bloodsucker in there?"

She scowled at the term—despite their mutual friendship with Ysmir, he wasn't even trying to be polite. He hadn't answered her question, either, which made her wonder briefly if he was being deliberately insulting to distract her. "If I had asked him to leave he would have hovered around, trying to see her. Since he was already there, I thought letting him get a good enough glimpse to see she still had all her limbs wouldn't be a bad thing and decided to just take her through. I didn't intend to let them exchange anything but a couple of words, but…well. The argument they had took me a little by surprise."

He looked conflicted, "They argued?"

Serana nodded, feeling bad for both of them. "Babette…I don't think she's used to people caring about her well-being. Aventus does and…and he told her so. And she told him that he shouldn't. Rather emphatically. He knows exactly where she stands now, but…I think he got under her skin. It might not be a bad thing. Maybe he can convince her to call the Dark Brotherhood off Ysmir, somehow."

Vilkas snorted. "You're old enough not to be that naïve," he scolded her, and she glared at him.

"The assassins have canceled contracts in the past," she informed him tartly, hand on her hips as she fumed. "They are perfectly capable of doing so, if given the right motivation."

"And what would that be?" he asked scathingly. "Money? A counter-contract? A direct decree from Sithis that he doesn't want the Dragonborn in his realm?"

"Well, that last would certainly work, but as to the others I don't know," she admitted. "They probably would have called off the contract if she had joined them like their leader wanted—"

"What?" he yelped, eyes wide.

"You didn't know?" Serana asked, smiling sweetly, "After Ysmir helped Aventus, the Dark Brotherhood kidnapped her. She woke up in a shack and was given a choice of three people to kill. Their leader said she owed them a death, and one of those people had a contract on him. They wouldn't give her the key to the door until she did so."

"She killed for them?" Vilkas asked, sounding like he desperately wanted to hear otherwise. Like most warriors, he found the way assassins killed dishonorable.

Serana chuckled, "She Shouted the door off its hinges and said right to their leader that no one tells her what to do."

He relaxed marginally, "That sounds like Ysmir," he admitted, somewhat wryly.

"Now, can I go back to the house or do you want to interrogate me some more?" she asked, watching his eyes turn to flint again as he remembered who and what he was talking to.

Before he could answer a howl broke the still air, sending the birds into stunned, frightened silence and making them both jump as a thrill of atavistic terror shot down Serana's spine. "What in Oblivion was that?" she breathed, eyes wide.

Vilkas took off running toward the sound like his life depended on it. After a moment's hesitation, the vampire followed.

A bridge crossed the road ahead, the ground beneath it littered with small boulders in what was obviously a bandit trap. There were no bandits now, but there were nearly two dozen men fighting a creature she had heard of, but never seen.

Standing close to seven feet tall, the werewolf was as frightening as she could wish, with thick, dark fur and tightly corded muscles that stood out starkly under its blue-black skin. In stature it reminded her strongly of a gargoyle, but no gargoyle had a muzzle filled with long, jagged teeth that glittered with saliva and blood, and eyes that shone with intelligence as well as malice.

The werewolf roared in rage as it swung at the fighters surrounding it, but it was obvious that it was going to be overwhelmed. Dark red blood already oozed from half a dozen wounds that she could see, and most of the beast was obscured from her. Archers stood back and fired at the exposed head that rose above those of their fellows, and the creature was struck time and again, staggering this way and that as it lashed out at those around it with massive swipes from its arms.

She expected Vilkas to stop, seeing the situation well in hand, or to join in the killing of the creature. He did neither. With a roar of his own he waded in, drawing the two-handed sword and wielding it with deadly efficiency at not the werewolf, but those attacking it.

"That armor: It's another one!" someone yelled.

The wolf fell it its knees as Vilkas interposed himself between it and the dozen or so fighters left. "Come at me," he growled, baring his teeth just as the wolf had done.

They needed no further invitation. Serana watched in incredulous silence as he fought, preventing so much as a single blow to fall on the downed creature, though many tried to get past him to finish it once and for all. It was taking a toll, though, since most of his focus was on defense. They were clearly outmatched, but he was clearly outnumbered.

The vampire shook off her paralysis and launched an ice spike at a man just as his sword began to descend toward the prone beast, throwing him off-balance. The wolf swung its paw and eviscerated him right through his leather armor.

Summoning a draining spell in both hands, she aimed it at the body of attackers, syphoning their stamina and life force, focusing all her attention in catching everyone in the group with the spell, but not Vilkas. He glanced at her, sheer astonishment in his eyes, which she chose to ignore.

The werewolf grunted and curled in on itself, shrinking suddenly as tuffs of fur fell onto the road around it. The sickening sound of bones crackling filled the air, along with the ring of sword on sword, and the naked form of a woman took shape where the werewolf had been. A familiar woman with red-brown hair and piercing grey eyes, who looked up at her with a slightly pained but approving expression.

A slight scuffing noise echoed from behind the vampire, breaking her concentration.

Serana gasped as a blade pierced her back, right beside her spine under her rib cage. Red-hot pain shot through her, blurring her vision and making her hiss. "Die, vampire," the man behind her spat.

Aela the Huntress ripped a bow from the dead man beside her, whirled, and put an arrow through the man's neck before he could finish angling the blade toward her heart. The sword was ripped from her as he fell, drawing a ragged yell from her, and she collapsed next to him, jerking the arrow from his neck and replacing it with her fangs before his heart could stop beating.

Hot, metallic liquid shot into her mouth with every faltering beat of his heart, giving her strength as his waned, and speeding the healing of the wound he had inflicted. She hoped the Companions could handle things without her for a few minutes.

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* * *

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Vilkas kicked the dying Silver Hand off his sword and whirled, but no further attacks were forthcoming. "Easy, Vil," Aela said, still huddled on the ground. Her wounds were healing, slowly, painfully slowly, but he could still watch their progress. Dammed silver blades. He glanced up the road to see the vampire crouched beside her attacker, face buried in his neck. At the moment, he couldn't even summon up the disgust such a sight should evoke. She had helped. She might have saved them.

"If she hadn't been here…"Aela mused, watching the scene with somewhat morbid fascination.

"Where did they all come from?" Vilkas asked, glancing around him. "Were they going to attack the house?" The thought filled him with dread. If their presence had brought danger to Ysmir and the children…

The Huntress shook her head, blood-matted auburn hair swinging. "I don't think so. They seemed quite surprised to see me, at least. It seemed like they were marching out. I thought there were only five or six of them, but the rest caught up when I was about to feed."

Without another word Vilkas began searching the bodies.

"Are you alright?" Serana asked the downed woman, stopping a little distance away. She stood straight, looking like she had never been wounded. Blood smeared down her front, and her eyes glowed a bit more brightly than before. Swiftly dropping to her knees, she started healing the Companion's wounds without being asked.

"Thanks to you," Aela replied. "So, to get this out of the way; yes, we're werewolves."

The vampire's eyebrows shot up. "All of you?"

"We three," Aela corrected.

Serana darted a glare at Vilkas that should have coated his armor with frost, "And you were giving _me_ a hard time?"

Aela chuckled.

Vil ignored both of them, approaching the one Serana had drained reluctantly. Riffling through his belt pouch, the Companion finally found what he was looking for. "They were headed to a larger camp of Silver Hand," Vilkas told them, eyes scanning the contents. "Their rout just happened to come by here; they weren't here looking for us. They're…" he trailed off, eye widening in horror.

"They're what, Vil?" Aela asked, staring apprehensively as the vampire helped her to her feet.

He looked up, mind numb with shock, "They're going to attack Jorrvaskr."

"Who?" Serana asked, looking from one aghast Companion to the other.

"We—we have to get back," Aela stammered, grimacing as she moved bruised muscles and unhealed wounds. "We have to be there to defend them."

Vil pinned Serana with a searching look. "Do you think you, Lydia, Argis, and Inigo can hold the house until then?" he asked.

"Most assuredly," she replied, giving him a somewhat amused look. "After all, it's not like Lydia's a fainting maiden and Argis and Inigo are a couple of plowhands."

Vil moved quickly to their side, scooping a protesting Aela up like a new bride as he began to walk toward the house. "Vam—Serana, do you think you could run ahead and get something to cover Aela? I don't want the children to see her like this."

"Wounded or naked?" the Huntress asked brazenly.

He gave her a withering look. "Both."

Serana nodded, racing off with a speed that took them both somewhat aback.

"Pretty spry, for a princess," Aela said after a moment. "I can't picture Queen Elisif darting off like that."

"If there is need, people can surprise you with what they do," he told her.

"She's not a bad person, Vil," Aela put in, and his eyes flickered to her face briefly to see if she was in earnest. "You could give her the benefit of the doubt."

"I don't see why," he began, but she lifted one hand and smacked him upside the head.

"You were quick enough to trust Argis. Both lycanthropy and vampirism are granted by a Daedric Prince—we have no right to judge her."

"She's also a necromancer," he reminded her, shuddering in revulsion.

"And werewolves are essentially cannibals, if you want to get down to cases," she replied frankly. "Ysmir trusts her."

"Ysmir is reckless beyond belief," he exploded. "She doesn't always think through what her actions will cause, unless they are planned well in advance. She let that little vampire go when they first met, and now look where that has gotten everyone! We're keeping an assassin in the house, we had to bring in another vampire to babysit her, and Aventus is mooning around like a lovesick bard!"

"He's not mooning around," Aela corrected him gently. "In fact, he's being rather over-diligent in his chores. And if he were trying to be a bard someone would have shot him by now. Probably me."

Vilkas just growled.

"Now, we have to leave as soon as possible," she continued, getting back to what was, for her, the important subject. "The message didn't say where the base was?"

"No," he groused, "it just said 'headquarters.'"

"So we don't know where they were headed, or how long it would have taken them to get there. We need to get back to Jorrvaskr and prepare for a siege."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I just hope Ysmir forgives us."

"No one has discovered Honey-Bee's abilities yet. Ysmir is just being paranoid," Aela countered. "She's done very well here with just her and Lydia in the past. And the children know to barricade themselves in the basement when there's fighting."

"But they don't do it!" he cried, exasperated.

"Runa and Aventus will get them down there if there is need," she replied calmly, mind obviously already on the upcoming battle with the werewolf hunters.

"And Aventus will probably stick the assassin down there with them," he said glumly.

"They aren't her prey," the Huntress replied with a shrug. "She would have killed them already, otherwise. And Serana was right—we're leaving the children with three of the best non-Companion fighters we know."

Just then the vampire came back into sight, carrying Aela's spare set of armor and followed closely by Farkas. The Huntress grinned. "Smart woman."

"When do we leave?" were the first words out of his twin's mouth when they got within earshot.

"As soon as we're provisioned," Vilkas replied. "Tonight."

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**A bit longer than most chapters, but I hoped you liked it all the same.**

**This has been an enterprising week for me. This chapter is up late because I had a job interview this morning! I had one yesterday, too, but I don't think that place wants me. I'm hopeful for the one from this morning, though. Cross your fingers!**

**Welcome new favorite-er! (Is that right? Person who favorited? That's not a word either. Ughhh...)**

**Wynni: Babette is very tough, but she's never been in this situation before. Every time I saw her in-game I always wondered how much of her was little girl, and how much an adult stuck in a little girl's body? I sort of wrote this trying to find out and things just...happened. That's also why we haven't seen Ysmir/Miraak-ness for awhile. This story was supposed to be a lot shorter, but the other characters keep jabbering about what's happening to them. I promise, they are together a lot later. They even get to do a dungeon together (bickering half the time probably). There is copious amounts of drama before that, though. Hang in there!**

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**Next week: Ysmir and Odahviing go to the Temple of Miraak so the red dragon can ask the newly-minted Daedra about some personal stuff.**


	29. Chapter 29: The Legacy of Hahnu

Turinmar jumped as his door was thrown open with no regard for how hard it was to get hinges set in ancient Nordic architecture. The panicked look on the workman's face, however, quelled his rising irritation. "Steward! A dragon just landed on the mountain to the north!"

"What?" he asked, paling. What was a dragon doing here? Did it serve Miraak? Did it want to challenge him? Was it hungry? Gods, he hoped it wasn't hungry.

"Oh, come on!" Dorte snapped, rising from the little table she had been writing up material lists at to grab his arm and tug him out the door, upsetting several piles of papers as they went. The Dark Elf began to wish he had taken his niece up on her offer to make him a decent filing system. His new assistant seemed to think everything not immediately useful should be thrown out or used for kindling.

"Dorte…" he huffed a little in her wake, as the Nord woman was at least a head taller than he and had a correspondingly longer stride, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Lord Miraak—"

"Could be visiting Black Marsh for all we know," she interjected in irritation.

Turinmar's lips thinned in anger. "He wouldn't leave us unprotected!"

Dorte muttered something angrily as she took to the ramp leading up into the outside edifice of the temple. "Don't look now, but there's a dragon on the ridge and no sign of your precious Miraak," she glared at him with a hint of triumph in her eyes. There was, indeed, a dragon. It gazed down at them as if searching for something, head tilted to the side. Other than that, it didn't move.

The Steward had better eyes than her, and his widened in disbelief. "There is a person on that dragon!"

"What?" she asked, glancing back up at it. Around them, the faithful drew bows, waiting for the beast to attack.

"It's too far…" he said, squinting, then "Thank you," as one of the cultists handed him a spy glass. He wasn't sure where the man had gotten it, but made a mental note to get himself one. "It's the Dragonborn. The…uh, you know…other one," he told her awkwardly.

"She rides dragons?" Dorte asked skeptically. "I thought she was a dragon slayer, not a dragon rider."

"I don't know of anyone else that could ride one besides Lord Miraak," he informed her, still watching through the spyglass. "And the, uh, bright red hair seems to cinch it, you know."

"What is she doing here?" someone asked him.

"For right now? Apparently watching," someone else said, sounding much more amused than the situation warranted. The Dark Elf glanced over at him—it was one of the Skaal workmen. That explained the amusement, anyway. Everything the new Dragonborn did seemed to amuse them.

"Ah!" Turinmar exclaimed, making them all jump, "There's Lord Miraak!"

"What's he doing?" Dorte demanded, sounding aggravated.

"Um…talking to her," the Steward informed them, quite confused. "At least…yes, he's talking to her. Wait…she's walking away…he's talking to the dragon now."

Dorte looked from him to the ridge and pretty much summed up what everyone was thinking, "What in Oblivion is going on up there?"

"I don't know," Turinmar told her, closing the spy glass and handing it back to its owner, "Someone get me a horse!"

.

* * *

.

"What are you doing here, Ysmir?" Miraak asked, irritated and not bothering to hide it. He had been having a very interesting time putting his Daedric hooks into a Thalmor mage when he had felt a desperate tug, similar to when he was called back to Apocrypha, only coming from his temple. At least now he knew what it felt like when a sizable portion of his followers called upon him, scared out of their wits and begging him to save them.

"I'm not here for myself, Miraak," she assured him, her hair streaming out behind her. She looked beautiful in the light of the sun, rather than the washed out, ambient glow of Apocrypha. Not that he was about to tell her that, seeing as she had brought a _dragon_ to his _temple_. Infuriating woman. He had hoped…well, mostly he had thought that perhaps she wanted to talk to him about Darva. Perhaps she had somehow discovered that he had been in contact with the child. He found himself looking forward to the argument that would surely ensue.

The Dragonborn slid down from her perch behind the head of a massive red dragon and Miraak suppressed a flinch, finally recognizing the beast now that it faced him. "Odahviing," he said, frowning.

The former dragon general inclined his head in a respectful greeting, which only served to make Miraak feel even more tense than before. _"Drem yol lok,_ Miraak. It has been many _eruvos_ since we have seen one another."

"I believe the last time we met you were trying to kill me," the First Dragonborn noted, making his voice as wry as possible.

_"Krosis_. I must tender my apologies. I flew under the _vorliz_ of Alduin then; I have a different purpose now," Odahviing stated genially. Miraak nodded, impressed despite himself that the great Odahviing, a power even amongst dragons, now apparently served Ysmir. He wondered briefly how she had managed that, since he obviously wasn't under the influence of Bend Will.

They both turned to look at Ysmir, who glanced between them with an expression of interest that quickly grew to something like amused outrage. "You make me come all the way here and I'm not allowed to even listen?"

"You got him to speak with me," Odahviing replied reasonably, "That was all I wished of you, Dovahkiin. But I told you before; my business is my own."

She gave a huff of aggravation, but relented with an air of friendly indulgence, taking Miraak completely by surprise. Not a servant then; a friend. She was friends with a dragon. Unbelievable. "Just…" she gave both of them stern looks, as if they were a pair of recalcitrant little boys rather than a dragon and a four-millennium old man, "play nice."

"I won't devour him," they said in unison, then glanced at each other measuringly. Ysmir had the audacity to chuckle. Flying, Miraak surmised, must put her in a rather good mood. He had never seen her like this, but he thought he liked it. Her face shown with good humor and just a touch of concern, though he supposed it was more for the dragon than for himself. What could Odahviing do to him now, after all?

"Now," Miraak said once she was out of earshot and they had moved far enough from the edge of the cliff to not be in sight of the city, crossing his arms over his chest, "What do you want?"

"Long ago, when we _dov_ were deciding how much of a _hask_ you were, it was rumored you knew the location of the _Staak Kiindah_. Is this so?" Odahviing asked without preamble.

Miraak was very, very glad he was wearing his mask. His chest tight, he finally asked, "Why?"

The dragon did not answer immediately, obviously pondering his words. Finally, he said, "When the Birthing Place was destroyed, there were two females within. One who was a mate wishes to know the grave of his _silliin."_ The look Odahviing gave him was censoring, "He should be allowed to mourn her properly. I thought as one who now has a mate, you would be more understanding of the pain of loss than you might have been before."

Miraak looked away, his gaze following Ysmir's footprints in the snow. He switched to the Dragon Language, realizing she would be listening, no matter what this dragon thought. To his knowledge, Ysmir wasn't even as versed in the Dragon Tongue as Darva was. "Dovahkiin are not dragons, Odahviing; our joining is different."

"Perhaps not as different as you would think," the dragon replied, and Miraak stomped down hard on the irritation he felt at the amusement threaded through that simple sentence.

A change of subject was in order. "It is interesting that such a mate would still be around, knowing who it was that destroyed the Birthing Place."

Odahviing hung his head. "We know now the great betrayal of Alduin's rage, Miraak. It was at Kyne's First Daughter's insistence that Paarthurnax first taught our human followers the Voice. We knew this angered Alduin, and that this began the rift between brothers, but we did not know how deep that wedge was driven. When the Dovahkiin destroyed Alduin, Paarthurnax told us of the boy who escaped the slaughter and revealed the trickery to him. The humans that slaughtered Hahnu and her birthing sister bore the mark of the World Eater."

He closed his eyes. Darva hadn't gotten to that part of the story yet. He hadn't been able to write it. Strange, that something that happened so long ago should be able to affect him so much still, when the memory of realizing his own mother's death was nothing but a vague, hollow ache cushioned by the long years between then and now. "It was my knowledge that Paarthurnax disbelieved the boy's story. He told the other dragons he had killed him, actually."

"It was later proven to be true," Odahviing said frankly. "Alduin admitted as much when it was revealed Paarthurnax had been teaching others than the Priests how to use the Voice. He had hoped that without Hahnu's influence Paarthurnax would recant his pupils. Instead, it pushed him into further betrayal."

"As if someone like Hahnu could be forgotten so quickly," Miraak scoffed, then realized he had spoken his pain aloud.

"You knew her," Odahviing stated, eyes as round as a dragon's could get.

There was no harm in him knowing now, Miraak supposed. It could not be used to hurt either of them, anymore. He planted his feet and faced the Red Dragon fully. "Lovaasunslaadhahnu first taught me the use of the Voice."

Odahviing's head reared up in utter denial, rising over the man with eyes pinning. "It is not feasible! Kyne's First Daughter wished nothing but peace between all beings; you betrayed us for your own whims. She would never have taken such a hateful creature as pupil!"

Miraak's smile was grim. "I was not always the Allegiance Guide, Odahviing. My hate had time to grow as I did."

"What are you two talking about?" Ysmir interjected as she raced up, watching Odahviing with wide eyes as he mantled above them, then casting Miraak an accusing glare.

"You really need to learn the Dragon Tongue if you insist on playing with them, Ysmir. Your _friend_ asked about the past," Miraak told her scornfully, "It is not my fault he did not like what he discovered."

"You ass—what did you say to him?" she demanded, hands curling into fists.

"The truth," he bit off, tired of her attitude. "I don't know if you've noticed, Ysmir, but dragons have a bit of trouble taking the truth when it doesn't suit them."

"Reminds me of someone else!" she shot back, then looked back up at Odahviing. "Calm down!"

"You're one to talk!" he fumed, gesturing to her and the enraged _dovah._ She gave him an incredulous, questioning look, violet eyes wide. "Dragons enslaved humans, Ysmir. _Enslaved_. For hundreds of years. They were terrible, cruel overlords, and their priests were even worse. They didn't even want to rule personally; they simply thought humanity too beneath them and too stupid to be allowed free reign over themselves and dominated us. Played us against each other and fattened themselves on the resulting wars, using them to keep our numbers from growing out of control. Nords, Elves; it didn't matter! If it lived on land it was within their dominion. They chose a small group of their most faithful and let them control the entire population however they saw fit, so they needn't sully themselves dealing with us directly!"

"Says one of that group!" she reminded him, scowling.

"I took power the only way there was!" he informed her, nearly spitting with rage. He ripped his mask off to stare down at her. "I manipulated, bribed, and killed my way into their ranks, and then I started taking them out like the trash they were!"

Ysmir's face went blank, and she actually took a step back, eyes wide, skin pale. He advanced on her, unable to stem the flow of words that had remained unspoken long enough. "I wanted to destroy them," he hissed down at her, "and I would not let anything stand in my way, even a devil's bargain with Hermaeus Mora."

"You're still planning to," she whispered, horrified.

Miraak scoffed. "If being trapped in Apocrypha taught me anything, Ysmir, it was that the dragons weren't completely wrong; man and mer are too stupid to rule themselves. Four millennia, and all I saw, all I read, was war and machinations equal to anything under the Dragon Rule. The Akaviri hunted the dragons to damned near extinction, and yet that behavior continued. This world isn't capable of peace, Ysmir. Not without someone ensuring it."

_"In order to subdue this chaotic world, to set things right, I must return to this world in full."_ It was his first slip with her, when she had glared at him on the side of a mountain much like where they now stood, as he stole the soul of a dragon she had slain. He could see the memory flit across her strangely colored eyes. "You really meant it," she breathed. "Miraak, that's insane! You can't mean to take over Tamriel!"

His smile was hardly reassuring; he didn't mean it to be. "I have all of time now, Ysmir. I'll do what I have to."

_"YOL TOR SHUL!"_

Miraak pulled Ysmir to him, sheltering her against his chest as he placed himself between her and the enraged dragon by sheer instinct, though she hardly needed it. She was shaking. He had never known anything to make her tremble before. He bent and kissed her, lightly, almost mocking, too quick for her to even respond. Oh, how he wanted to do so much more than that…"You should take your pet home; he's making quite a lot of noise, and there are children below."

She swallowed. Licked her lips. "Miraak…your eyes…"

He could see them reflected in hers. It didn't trouble him. He turned, pushing her further behind him. _"Gol Ha Dov!"_

"No!" Ysmir shrieked, clutching his arm.

He saw the Shout take Odahviing, felt the dragon fight it with his formidable will. Felt him loosing. Ysmir knew as well as he did how easy it would be for him now to take the soul of the Red Dragon without that worthy even being able to put up a fight.

"You bastard!" she yelled, catching flame as she beat against his chest, too upset and fearful to even summon a spell. Miraak shook his head, lifting her bodily and placing her on Odahviing's neck. She froze as surely as if he had used Ice Form, staring down at him with astonishment, wondering what he was thinking.

He patted Odahviing's head, glancing at the glassy eyes. All the _dovah's_ concentration was turned inward, fighting his _thu'um_. This one would not respond while under control, not meekly do as he was bit. He was much too strong for that. While his mind rebelled, however, his body could not help but obey. "When he comes to, tell him it's near Bonestrewn Crest. Far be it for me to keep someone from the grave of their beloved," he finished bitterly. Before she could respond, he looked directly at the dragon. Rage whirled in those eyes behind the dullness of his control. "Take her home."

Ysmir grabbed the ridge before her as the dragon launched himself into the air, thoughts shielded, even from him. He watched them go, her hair shining like Odahviing's scales in the late afternoon sunlight. He watched long after she was gone, as the stars began to show themselves, winking in and out as if they had shutters over them, moving in the brisk mountain wind.

"What took you so long?" he asked, turning to watch his Steward clamber up the rise behind him, shivering and slipping in the snow.

Turinmar froze for a moment as he saw his lord unmasked, but it was not a completely new sight for him, although Miraak thought he had a few new scales since the last time he had gone bare-faced before the Dunmer. "My horse didn't like the smell of brimstone. Or dragon," he confided, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "Lord Miraak…your eyes are…black."

"I know," he replied, looking back over his city, hands clasped calmly behind his back.

"You let the dragon go," Turinmar observed, swallowing a little. When Miraak glanced back at him, one eyebrow raised, the Dunmer added, "People are going to ask me why, you know."

"It belongs to her," Miraak replied with deceptive carelessness. "I wouldn't kill your pet dog, why should I kill her pet dragon?"

"So you…let it go because…she would be upset?" the Dark Elf frowned, sounding confused.

Miraak glared at him, "I let him go because he is no threat to me."

"But he could be, you know," Turinmar pointed out. "She could be."

"Turinmar…" Miraak said lowly, starlight reflecting off his eyes, black from lid to lid, "I like you. I'd even go so far as to say that you're my favorite follower, but irritating me is still bad for your health."

The Dark Elf gulped. "Of course, sire."

"Now, this little venture interrupted other business. There's a Thalmor in Winterhold begging for my attention," he said, smile full of malevolence. He vanished in a swirl of blackness that smelled of old parchment and ink.

.

* * *

.

Turinmar sighed and began trudging back down the hill, thinking furiously. By the time he got back to his horse, and then back to the temple, he had many more questions than answers. That had never bothered him before. Now, though, he had others to appease. The most pushy of them was just ahead, leaning like a grumpy orc against the outermost post of the temple.

"Well?" Dorte asked archly, as he knew she would. Turinmar sighed and she scowled. "What did the Dragonborn want?"

"I don't know," he replied wearily.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know?'" she demanded.

"I don't know what was happening. Supposedly the Dragonborn called upon Lord Miraak for his wisdom," he temporized.

Dorte snorted, "I raised one niece and half a dozen apprentices; I know when someone's trying to pull the wool over my eyes, elf."

"Then know that I'm telling the truth when I say that I don't know why that woman came to call," he said tiredly. "But I would appreciate it if you didn't spread that around once I come up with an answer for everyone else."

"Perhaps Dragonborn see each other socially," she suggested flippantly. "He doesn't show up for nearly anything else, but he and the great hero of the age are two of a kind! Better than us little people with our mundane little problems like food and shelter!" she ranted, tossing her hands up.

She was only goading him, but Turinmar paused, thoughts whirling. They were two of a kind. Not exactly, but in a sense. He had ordered that the attempts on her life end, then let her go unpunished after she sacked the temple and killed a number of his followers. He had let her go today, after bringing a dragon here. Had even let the dragon go, when he could have taken its soul and easily left the Dragonborn to find her own way home.

"Are you listening?" Dorte snapped, and he realized she had been ranting at him for some time.

"No," he told her absently, then almost smiled when her face turned red in annoyance. "Dorte, can you supervise the building for a few weeks?"

She paused mid-breath as whatever tirade she was about to lay upon him completely deflated. "Yes. Why?"

"Lord Miraak's been pressuring me to take better care of myself, you know. I think I'll go see my niece."

The stocky Nord frowned. "This is very sudden, Turinmar."

"Perhaps, but if I can convince her to come back this time, my life will be much easier," he revealed with a smile. "She's an expert at organization, you know, and has been training as a Healer…we could certainly use her."

"That's true," she admitted. "Healers are one group that haven't been flocking to Miraak's siren song. Probably because they're too sensible to fall for it."

He forced a happy expression on his face, made himself relax. "Thanks, Dorte. I'll be back before next moon." Going back into his office, he was relieved when she didn't follow him. Stacking the piles she had knocked over earlier, he started making his plans. First, to get to Windhelm. From there, he needed to find out everything he could about this other Dragonborn.

.

.

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**Personally, I love this chapter. I hope you guys do too. Sorta nervous about it, because this is where I really start messing with the dragonlore (which has a lot of holes to fill. I hope you enjoy what I'm filling them up with.) and reveal Miraak's goal, if not his game plan.**

**I know, I know. They finally see each other and all they do is argue. They stress me out too, and I'm the one writing them.**

**I really enjoy writing Turinmar and Dorte. Those two crazy cultists make me grin. Well, Dorte's not really a cultist, but she's a tall, true Nord woman bossing around this tiny little Dunmer secretary who sasses right back at her. I can't not like that.**

**Got some really bad news in real life (besides the not yet having a job thing) that makes me want to hit someone repeatedly with a bat. The baseball kind, not the flying mammal kind, because I think those are cute and that would be cruelty to animals. Despite loving to read and write, I really, really hate drama, and when someone initiates it to the point where it literally starts ruining people's lives, I tend to get a little livid. In other words, expect some violence. **

**Wynni: I love writing Vilkas. He sort of shoved his way from tertiary to secondary and parked there, glaring at me with his arms crossed. I've never written a perpetually suspicious, grumpy character before, and I'm loving it, though I have to go look at Grumpy Cat memes sometimes before I write him. (Kidding. I'd only do that for Mercer.)**

**Wicked Lullaby: I'm so glad I'm not the only one who saw that in her. I was worried people wouldn't like how I wrote her because she appears kind of weak, but she's still at least half little girl to me. And making Serana and Vilkas bicker like a-well, not exactly like an old married couple, but I guess like a werewolf and a vampire, just tickles me. Two of my favorite characters, and they get along like oil and water. Or perhaps baking soda and vinegar, depending. And all reviews are happily welcomed, no matter when you get around to it!**

**Thanks, you two, for being so consistent! I love feedback as much as Sheogorath loves cheese!**

**.**

**Next week: There's fisticuffs, then Aventus does a lot of sneaking. **


	30. Chapter 30: So Does the Fairest Maid

"Grrrr!"

Lucia gave a little shriek and leapt away, nearly landed on Aventus, staring at the masked figure that had popped out from behind the corner of the house. Aventus rolled his eyes, not even pausing in hanging the bedsheets on their line. Lucia was too short to handle this herself, and the stool she usually used kept sinking in the mud after the dousing they had gotten yesterday. The storm was long gone now, the sky clear and so blue it rivaled the lake behind them. It was a bit breezy, blowing around the freshly washed sheets and chasing away the scent of sun baked rock with a hint of wild roses blooming somewhere in the mountains. "Blaise, you know you're not supposed to be getting into those."

The boy ripped the mask off his face to reveal a scowl not nearly as impressive as the mask's. "You're no fun anymore, Aventus."

"Good. You're annoying," he replied equably.

"At least I'm not wearing girl's jewelry!" Blaise responded, gaining his older brother's undivided attention. Babette's pendant dangled from his fingers, swaying back and forth in front of his smug expression. Light arched over the round casing to center on the jewel, which shone darkly, as if it found the daylight offensive. "Found this by your bed."

"It was in my bedstand," Aventus countered, turning with narrowed eyes. Beside them, Precious caught his mood and growled. "You went through my things."

Blaise paused at the expression on the older boy's face, then stuck out his tongue and took off. Aventus pelted after him so fast Lucia was left gaping, holding a basket of damp sheets with no way of getting them on the line. "Aventus!" she croaked, then cleared her throat. "Aventus!"

"What's wrong?" Lydia asked, thrusting her head out a window.

"Not a snitch!" Lucia yelped, grabbing Precious's collar and scuttling away. Snitches got pinched. Lydia rolled her eyes and headed outside to investigate.

Meanwhile, Blaise was getting a bit alarmed with how fast his brother was catching up to him. His feet made sucking sounds as he barreled right through a puddle. "Alesan!" he yelled, catching sight of his usual partner in crime raking leaves into bags for kindling, "Hide this!" he held up the pendant.

Alesan shook his head. "You're on your own, Blaise. I told you not to mess with Aventus. He could whip both of us without tryin'."

"Thanks for nothing!" Blaise growled, switching directions to head for the trees and firmer ground. Higher on the ridge, Alesan saw Aventus slide a bit, use his momentum to change direction, and put himself on a new course to intercept Blaise without even slowing down. He almost felt bad for Blaise, but his brother had brought it on himself.

"What's going on?" Sofie asked, coming out of the woods carrying a bunny. This one seemed to have a broken leg. The last one had had a ripped ear. Alesan wondered why she kept bringing them home if she had no intention of eating them. Wolves he could understand, but bunnies?

"Blaise is 'bout to get his butt kicked by Aventus," he replied, going back to his raking.

"Oh," she replied, casting a worried glance after her brothers, then sneezed a bit.

"Yeah," Alesan replied with a snort. "'Oh.' And bless you."

"Thanks. Oh, dear," she added, watching Blaise look back, only to have Aventus appear out of apparently thin air to tackle him. She winced as they fell, then looked away when the punches started flying. "I'll go get the health potions."

.

* * *

.

Aventus was sore. He had a black eye, a small split in his lip, two skinned knees, and a myriad of small cuts all over his body from where they had rolled into the underbrush. Blaise was worse off, which, in hindsight, he was a little ashamed of, Blaise being both younger and smaller than himself.

He wouldn't take back hitting him, though.

"You're in hot water," Ma'Rakha informed him.

Aventus snorted. "No shit," he replied, being in the bathing room and, quite literally, up to his neck in hot water. For some inexplicable reason, it smelled a bit like roses. He hoped it didn't stick—while people insisted it was a good thing to smell like roses, he didn't think they meant for a thirteen year old boy, and he had enough problems at the moment.

"No, I mean Lydia, Pa, and Argis are talking about sending you to some blacksmith to work bellows until your hair turns gray," his friend said worriedly, pulling his tunic off and joining Aventus in the pool, swimming to the other side where the boy could barely see him through the steam. He'd been teased about his fur back at Honorhall and didn't like others seeing him without a full set of clothes on. Aventus wondered how he stood it in the summer.

"Oh, great. Blaise steals from me and I get punished," he groused.

"No, they're talking of hanging him up by his toes until the blood running to his head gets his brain working, then sending him to a different blacksmith."

Pushing his sodden hair out of his face, Aventus sighed. "They're just talking. They can't send us away without Mother's permission, and the blood vessels in Blaise's head would rupture long before his brains started working."

Ma'Rakha snickered. "So what did he take that had you so worked up?" he asked curiously. In answer, Aventus held up the pendant. He hadn't been willing to put it back where it had been, especially since that dresser was supposed to be locked, but Blaise had gotten it anyway. "Ah," his "cousin" said wisely. "I never pegged Blaise as having a death wish."

"I've wondered," Aventus muttered darkly, raking his fingers back through his hair, then looking at his hand. His fingertips were like shriveled little raisins stuck on the end of his digits. The teenager sighed. "I better get out before I start resembling a draugr. Or a drowning victim."

He heard a bit of a splash as Ma'Rakha shook his head. "Nah. Drowning victims swell and get all bloated and pale."

Aventus paused, remembering just where Ma'Rakha had grown up before going to Honorhall. "Right. I'll remember that."

"Hard to forget," the Khajiit replied glumly.

Blaise was already asleep in his bed when Aventus padded back into the room, thankfully. Half the boy's face was swollen where it had landed against a tree when they rolled down the hill. He had a sprained finger that Sofie had bound, scolding both of them under her breath as she did so. At the moment he was snoring so loud Alesan had fallen asleep with bits of tundra cotton stuffed in his ears, but Aventus wouldn't tease him about it, since it was only because his nose was swollen to twice its normal size.

He looked down at the pendant still in his hand. He had held it all through Lydia's lecture, then Argis's, and just now, Lydia's second lecture. Miss Serana had just watched, silently, with a neutral expression. Aventus suspected she thought Blaise was a pain. He knew Uncle Inigo did, but the Khajiit had still graced him with a look of firm disapproval before he and Ma'Rakha left.

Suppressing a sigh, the teenager sat cross-legged on his bed, pulling out a book. He wasn't planning on sleeping for a while, and was perfectly capable of reading in the low light. He'd gotten the hang of that at Honorhall, where Grelog hadn't wanted them to read at all. If she found you with a book in your hand, she would take it and whack you with it until you found something more productive to do.

Hearing Argis's heavy steps outside the door, Aventus flipped the covers up and lay down with his back to the door, forcing his shoulders to relax. The housecarl looked in, assumed they were all asleep, and closed the door with a slight scrape of wood-on-wood.

That was what Aventus had been waiting for. Quickly, he fluffed up his pillow and shoved a spare quilt under his blanket, shaping it until it looked approximately like the slope of a body on its side. Moving bare-footed across the floor, he made his way to the door and placed an ear against the crack. There was a slight creak when Argis reached the fourth step from the bottom. It always creaked. Another count of thirty and the faint click of the front door latch echoed across the silent house as he went outside to make his rounds around the manor.

Aventus slipped out of the room and into the main hall, then through Lydia and Argis's room. That was a bit harrowing; he hadn't done anything like this since sneaking out of Honorhall. For all he knew, the female housecarl stayed up all night reading, but she was apparently sound asleep. Pausing for a moment, he gave the woman an odd look; was that her sword she was cuddling?

Deciding he would really rather not know, Aventus pulled out the tiny little jar of Dwarven Oil he had removed from the new Alchemy Lab earlier that day, unwound the top and liberally smoothed oil over the hinges of the door to the storage room with a small brush. He didn't know if they had been oiled recently, and he would really rather not find out the hard way if they weren't.

Especially now that he knew Lydia might sleep with her sword.

The door opened soundlessly, and Aventus crept through just as Argis entered the house again. He froze, then moved to the area with the least light, held his breath, and prayed.

Something squeaked downstairs, then he heard the man go down a ladder. He sighed quietly with relief; he had gone into the basement.

Precious was asleep across the door to the old Alchemy Lab, but Aventus put a hand under the ice wolf's muzzle first. Catching his scent, the wolf grunted and rolled over, not even waking up enough to bother looking at the boy. Aventus almost smiled, then set to work on the lock, glad Ysmir kept so many picks around. Not that he was supposed to know about them, of course.

He didn't even break any before the door opened.

Babette was curled in a corner of the bed, reading a book on the alchemical ingredients found exclusively in the ash-strewn environment of Morrowind. She actually jumped when she realized he was there, her crimson eyes wide. "I didn't hear you come in," she said in astonishment.

He grinned a bit sheepishly, ducking his head. "Ma'Rakha started showing me how to sneak when I first got to Honorhall," he whispered. "It's how I got back into my parent's house in Windhelm."

She regarded him wordlessly for a moment, then set her book aside. "What did you want?" she asked, sitting up and crossing her hands in her lap, almost demurely. "And what did you do to your face? You look like a were-raccoon."

"I wanted to apologize for making you cry yesterday," he told her, ignoring the second question and accompanying statement.

She stiffened. "I was not crying."

He nodded, "That's good, then," he said agreeably, then stood still for a moment as the basement door creaked back open, reflecting that he had never noticed how creaky the house was until tonight. They listened as Argis did another walk around the house, giving him a little scare when he paused longer than normal at the boys' room. Aventus took three slow steps backward at the same time as Argis's footfalls, seeing Babette's eyebrows rise in approval as he hid behind the door.

The housecarl unlocked the door, opened it so wide it almost hit Aventus's nose, and glared suspiciously at Babette, who gave him a charming smile and fluttered her eyelashes. He grunted and shut the door again. Then, on the count of seventy, the front door latched again.

They both breathed a sigh of relief. "You should go," she told him. "That man is just waiting for an excuse to cut my head off."

"Yeah, probably," he sighed. "I just…here," he said, holding out the pendant.

Babette stiffened as if she had been immobilized, eyes on it as the ruby caught the candlelight, sending tiny little embers flickering across the small room. "I gave that back to you."

"And I want you to keep it," he replied stubbornly, and she sighed.

"I meant every word I said, you know," she admonished him.

"I know," he told her.

"Aventus, I don't know what you want from me," she started, but snapped her mouth shut when he leaned in close suddenly, securing the amulet back around her neck.

"Well, not throwing things at my head would be a great start," he said with a small grin.

She looked back up at him wryly, hand going automatically to stroke the pendant. "You're insane."

"You didn't say that like it was a bad thing," he pointed out.

"Your entire family is insane," she went on, and this time it definitely sounded like a bad thing. "I came here to kill one of you, and you're all…well, not fine, but half of you are falling all over yourselves to make sure I'm alright."

"Notice that half is the half that's met you," he pointed out, crouching as he examined her. "Maybe there's something about you worth protecting."

Babette flushed, looking away. "You should probably go."

"Yeah. I only have another half minute until Argis clumps back inside," he noted, surprising her again. He rose, examined her for another moment, then darted forward before slipping back out the door so soundlessly the Thieves Guild would have applauded.

Babette lifted her fingers to touch the warm spot on her cheek where his lips had rested, briefly. Even her fingertips felt warm as they rested on it. She listened automatically to his heartbeat recede, easy to pick out now that she was casting about for the sound, and heard the faint scrape of his door shut just as the front latch tumbled, signaling the housecarl's return.

A broad smile tugged the vampire's lips up as she decided it was time to turn in for the night. She had nothing better to do, after all. Most of the action around here happened during the day, and this was her fifth read-through of that book. Fiddling with the pendant, she pursed her lips, flopping over to gaze up at the ceiling. "Sithis," she breathed, "that boy is going to make one amazing assassin."

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* * *

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Outside the manor a figure stepped from the shadows briefly, eyes narrowed as the large Nord man re-entered the house. The wind picked up momentarily, rustling the leaves so moon shadow danced across scales dulled by a liberal application of ash. He tilted his face upward, taking a moment to enjoy the hint of roses on the wind before it faded. It had been something of a surprise when Arnbjorn had returned to the Sanctuary and announced there were three werewolves he'd rather not cross already living where their Sister was being held.

He had no fear of Hircine's hounds. He had volunteered to go.

It was a bit of a surprise to learn Babette had gotten over her head, but given the mark, he supposed they should have stopped sending individual assassins after her years ago. Babette was patient, though, and good at getting under a mark's guard. It was rather remarkable that she had gotten caught. Almost as remarkable as that she was still alive. She may not have gotten under the Dragonborn's guard, but she must have gotten under something.

Veezara preferred to go around guard altogether, which was why he had decided not to go after the mark, but rather just aim for getting his Sister back. So he had waited until the Dragonborn had left, and then the wolves had left, and half his opposition was gone.

Now all he had to do was wait just a little longer, and the Dragonborn's pet vampire would have to trade his Sister back.

Or everyone in the house would die.

He stepped back into the shadows again, becoming one with them in a way few could manage, just in time for the Nord man to return. What a restless, diligent soul.

Veezara waited until he went around the stable to start moving toward the lake, the perfect hiding spot for his little plot. Behind him, the scent of roses sprang back up, and the patrolling man coughed.

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**Dun dun DUN! I always liked Veezara. I'm glad I was able to include him. Well, anyways, I hope you like this chapter-I know it has a big chunk of nothing but Aventus doing an interminable amount of sneaking. I hope you got the reference for the title; if so you might be able to guess what is about to happen. ^_^**

**So, busy week. I GOT A JOB! I'm so exited. It's at a portrait studio, so I'm going to be super busy during the holiday season, but I think I'm far enough ahead that I shouldn't miss posting a chapter a week still, although depending on how my Thursdays and Fridays are, the posting day might change. *Knocks on wood that I won't make a liar out of myself.***

**Welcome and thank you to the new watchers and those who favorited! **

**Wynni: Miraak makes everyone want to shake him. It's part of his charm. Shake him or behead him or kiss him, depending on the person. **

**Wicked Lullaby: Only partially far-fetched then? XD And I won't forget Sheo's love of sheep, but Skyrim only has goats!**

**.**

**Next chapter: We check in on the Peanut Gallery (in this case, the Companions), and Serana is put in a difficult position with only one way out. **


	31. Chapter 31: Brothers and Sisters

"I don't think Kodlak would like this," Farkas said with a worried frown, glancing around to ensure no more of the bodies littering the road were moving. One seemingly dead man had tried to jump up and stab him already tonight, and he wasn't taking a chance on the others.

"You know very well that he wouldn't," Vilkas replied tartly, cleaning the last specks of blood from his blade before returning it to its sheath. "But it doesn't make sense to allow our enemies to form themselves into an army when it's so much easier to kill them off in small groups before they get there."

"It's called tactics, Ice Brain," Aela interjected, patting down a Silver Hand corpse for hidden pouches. Farkas cringed and looked away. "They've already declared war on Jorrvaskr; there's no point in giving them more of an edge than they already have."

"Not to mention they'll run rough-shod over the town before they even reach Jorrvaskr," Vilkas pointed out.

"I know," Farkas replied with a frustrated exhalation. "But Kodlak said they could handle it. And Balgruuf was so mad that someone would dare attack anyone in his city like that that he's doubled the city guard. He would have brought the Legion in if he didn't think that would look like he was taking sides."

"Good thing Ysmir is out," Aela mused, going through the pile of purses she had gathered, "She'd try to solve it all herself."

"The Voice would be useful against an army," Farkas felt obligated to mention.

"But that doesn't help anyone else's honor, does it?" Aela peered at him with narrowed eyes. "We're the Companions, Farkas, not a bunch of milk drinkers that need to hide behind the Dragonborn's skirts."

"Ysmir doesn't wear…nevermind," he sighed, scratching at a healing cut on his forehead. "I just…this doesn't feel honorable to me. You said we were taking the fight to the Silver Hand; you didn't say anything about hunting them down like wounded deer."

Aela rose slowly, "If you want to back out, Ice Brain, go ahead. I'm not going back until I seek out every one of these bastards I can."

Farkas growled, looking conflicted. Vilkas frowned, looking from one to the other. He'd had an itching suspicion nagging him for a few battles now. Finally, he asked, "Is this really about evening the odds, Aela, or are you still seeking vengeance for Skjor's death?"

She flinched as if he had slapped her, then scowled. "The Silver Hand doesn't know which of us is a werewolf and which isn't. They'd kill all the Companions, Vilkas, not just the Circle. Would you see that happen?"

"I'll be the first to admit that I'll sometimes lose my head in the heat of battle," Vilkas said, studying her, "especially when someone I care about has been hurt, but I'm beginning to think Kodlak was right. The Silver Hand may be planning to attack us, but they haven't gone through with it yet. We need to trust that the other Companions know how to take care of themselves, and not spill more blood than honor demands."

"We should be there defending them!" she cried, anguished.

"Kodlak is the Harbinger. He knows what he is doing, and right now he wants us with Ysmir," Vilkas finally decided, unable to watch the raw pain that still lingered in her eyes even if he could still scent it tainting the air around them, acrid and thick.

"Why?" she raged. "What purpose could he possibly have in sending us away right now?"

"Because he wants to see us happy!" Farkas finally snapped, glaring at her. She looked at him in surprise while Vilkas looked down, closing his eyes tightly. "He wants us to have the things he never did. He wants us to have families, Aela." Farkas's gaze softened. "He's watched you mourn Skjor for so long, and that ripped the old man up inside as much as Skjor's death did. Now, you've basically apprenticed Runa, and you talk of Argis's skill to anyone who will listen, and how much you wish he would join the Companions. Even I can tell you like him." Aela's cheeks flamed while her jaw worked, but no sound emerged. "Even if nothing happens with the Silver Hand, Kodlak's not going to be around forever, Aela. He just…he wants to know we're going to be alright when he's gone."

For a few eternal moments she simply gazed at him, face impassive, as the night came back to life around them and crickets started back up. Above, the moons shown down on them with faint, calming light, and a ribbon of purple aurora danced to the northeast amongst the stars. Without a word she turned and stalked off into the darkness.

Farkas groaned. "Don't," Vilkas warned when his twin would have gone after her. "Let her be. We should have guessed what she was up to when she suggested this, but…I was too caught up in my own rage, and I guess you were too."

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Farkas said softly after a howl rent the night, scaring the crickets back into silence.

"She was already hurting," Vil replied with a sigh, taking over the task the Huntress had abandoned. Finally, he found their orders, but they were identical to the first group's, just as the orders of the other four bands they had killed since then were. "I didn't realize it still pained her this much."

After a moment, Farkas went to the side of the road and sat on a rock, just watching. "What do you think of Kodlak's dream? The one he told us about in the Underforge?"

Vil paused. "I knew which one you meant," he said. He was hardly likely to forget. The myriad of conflicting emotions that had surged through him still had him reeling. "I admit, the knowledge that a werewolf can never enter Sovngarde bothers me. I would much rather spend my afterlife in Shor's Hall than Hircine's Hunting Grounds."

Farkas nodded. "Do you think…If Kodlak really finds a cure, would you do it?"

He gave a ragged sigh, "I don't know. Probably. Eventually. But…there's so much I would miss. The strength, the enhanced senses…" he trailed off, knowing Farkas felt the same.

"Are you going to do it?" his twin asked, eyes glowing silver in the moonlight as he watched Vilkas go through the last of their enemies' belt purses. "Are you going to resist the call of the Blood?"

"I'm going to try," Vilkas said after a moment. "Kodlak needs our support, and I'd spill my own blood for that man." Looking up at the moons, he heard Aela take an elk in the distance. "I just hope no occasion comes up where I'll need the transformation."

His twin nodded shortly. "Then I will, too. I wish we could ask Ysmir about the cure, though. She's getting nowhere with any of her contacts or research on her own problems; maybe a change in pace would help her."

"Maybe, but I can't see her stopping the search," Vil replied, standing and dusting his hands off on his pants. "At this rate it might be better to just wait until Darva's older, as the Greybeards suggested." His gaze wandered over to the carefully piled stack of silver swords, tied tightly in their sheaths and arranged in piles by size. "Let's get these back to the Skyforge; Eorlund has some silver ingots to make."

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* * *

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For the first time in a very, very long time, Serana was at a complete loss for what to do. Carefully, she wrung the liquid out of the soft cloth she held and laid it across Sofie's forehead. The gentle little girl didn't seem to notice as she coughed weakly. The little rabbit she had tried to save was curled in a basket next to her head, dead, but the child was too weak to notice. It had come in for a broken leg and died of the same sickness that took the entire household in less than two days. Now, on this third day, the vampire was the only one unaffected, and she was running out of ideas.

"Stay still," she advised Sofie gently as the girl struggled to get up. If she was going to start doing that, Serana figured she should probably get rid of the dead rabbit immediately, but she'd hardly had time to breath.

"I need to fix the tree," Sofie protested, her eyes bright with fever. "She wants me to fix the tree."

"You can fix the tree later," the vampire promised, easing her back down and glad she hadn't said she was going to fix the rabbit. She wondered if the girl would be in quite so bad a state if she hadn't tried Healing the others before she succumbed herself. As it was, Serana was impressed. Little Sofie was turning out to be quite the healer. Her sisters had been much worse before she had aided them.

But who in Oblivion was "she"?

"Hot," Lucia complained, feebly pushing the layers of quilts off her.

Serana frowned, hurrying over to tuck the child back in. "You were cold a few minutes ago," she reminded the girl. Lucia didn't reply, having fallen back asleep the instant the covers were off. Before Serana could even turn away, she was shivering again. The vampire placed half the blankets back over her, and left the rest folded within easy reach.

"What _is_ this?" she wondered aloud, frustrated. She wished heartily that the Companions hadn't left, some vague memory reminding her that werewolves were immune to diseases. There was only her to tend them; Argis had been among the first to fall ill, and Lydia had worked herself to exhaustion and nearly drowned in the bath before anyone even realized she was sick. When she realized how much trouble everyone was in, she ran to Pinewatch to get Inigo to go get a Healer; he wasn't back yet, and Ma'Rakha was quarantining himself in their little cabin.

This didn't match anything in Serana's memory. There was no time to go pouring through Ysmir's books, though she had skimmed a few in her scant moments of rest between patients. As the daughter of an avid alchemist, she had tried every variation of Cure Disease potion she knew, then switched to Health potions. She had carried Darva—the smallest—down to the Temple and had her try praying, to no effect, though she wasn't sure if that were simply because the five-year-old didn't know how to pray properly, or not. She was seriously considering hulling one of the things upstairs and having Lydia try, despite her aversion to going near the shrines, let alone touching them.

The vampire groaned, leaning against the doorframe in exhaustion. She had barely slept since the Companion's had left, and that had been interrupted by Aventus's heart thumping in his chest when he visited Babette, and—her thoughts halted abruptly. Babette.

Shoving herself off the doorframe, she marched with renewed purpose to the old Alchemy Lab and shoved the key in the lock, letting the door bang open heedlessly as the littler vampire sat up in surprise at this abrupt entrance. "Get up," she commanded, forcing her will on the girl with no regard for her feelings, then reinforcing it by grabbing her arm and dragging her out the door.

"What are you doing?" Babette demanded, outraged.

Serana's only answer was to half-drag her to the boys' room, throw open the door, and shove the girl at Aventus. The little assassin froze.

Aventus hadn't been the first hit by any means, but he was one of the hardest. His cheeks were sunken in and pale, his eyes looked like he had taken a severe beating, and his lips were chapped and colorless. His skin was waxy, sallow, and his breaths were so slight even the vampire had to look for them to notice they were there at all.

For a moment, Babette seemed to forget that she was there, and reached out with a shaking hand to lightly touch the boy's hair. Then she remembered herself and jerked the hand back, turning to look up at Serana wordlessly.

"This is the Dark Brotherhood's doing, isn't it?" she asked, arms across her chest as she watched the girl with narrowed eyes.

"I can't say for sure, but it looks that way," Babette replied, face so bland they might have been discussing the weather.

"How do I fix it?" Serana demanded.

Babette shrugged. "I don't know," she replied. "I assume you've already tried Cure Disease potions?"  
"Potions, praying, chicken soup, and anything else I can think of. I'd try leaches if I knew where to get any, at this point!" the vampire exclaimed.

"You know how stupid that sounds, right?" Babette asked, trying to ignore the still form on the bed behind her. "A vampire needing leaches."

The Volkihar princess bent, glaring into Babette's face. "Go to the Alchemy Lab," she ordered, and saw the girl jerk upright with the force of the command. "Make whatever cure they need. If it doesn't work, I'll kill you myself, no matter what Ysmir wanted."

Movements jerky, the girl made her way toward the back of the house. Serana noticed that her actions weren't as stilted as they might have been if she were completely against the order. With a glance at Aventus and a quick round of the other patients, she hurried out the door into a night lit only by what moonlight managed to filter through the clouds. The gathered darkness did nothing to improve her nerves, and she glanced at the wooded areas warily, feeling as if she were being watched. Taking the way to Pinewatch at a run, she skidded to a halt by the door and knocked sharply. "Ma'Rakha!" she called.

The answer came with agonizing slowness. "Miss Serana," the boy said, his voice a rasp. Serana cursed, shouldering open the door to find the Khajiit child slumped in a chair by the fire, apparently having collapsed into it while trying to make more chicken soup. He looked miserable, shoulders, tail and ears drooping pathetically. "I don't think quarantine helped, Miss Serana."

"Come on," she said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Let's get you to the house while you can still move." A quick Frost spell put out the fire, and she half-carried, half-dragged the kitten to the house, where she set him up on a pallet in the boys' room. Then she returned to Pinewatch and grabbed the soup he had been stirring, heading back to Lakeview Manor.

"Vampire."

Serana halted at the unfamiliar voice, turning to see a figure crouched in the shadows. She couldn't quite make out what it was, but that was the direction the voice had come from. "Who are you?" she asked warily.

There was a hissing chuckle. "I am a child of Sithis, and I am here for my Sister."

He let that sink in. "You poisoned them," she stated, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. She had figured, of course, that if Babette was to blame it was a sort of poison. She had tried Cure Poison potions and gotten no results. The Dark Brotherhood, however, would have access to poisons she had never even heard of, and likely never would. "What did you use?"

"Something found only in my homeland," the voice replied, sounding like the speaker found this conversation quite pleasant, "that can be cured only by something from my homeland."

The pot was becoming heavy, but she didn't put it down. At the moment, the heavy kettle and hot liquid within were the closest things to weapons she had, and would slow his progress until she could ready a spell, should he decide to attack. "I suppose you want a trade, then?" she surmised.

He chuckled. "Naturally."

"I'll be back," she informed him, backing away slowly. There was a small movement, as if he had decided that it would be just as easy to kill her, grab Babette, and leave everyone else to die. She smiled grimly, and the movement of shadow stilled. "I know what you're thinking," she informed him, "and it would be a very, very bad idea. I'm a very old vampire, and killing a very old vampire does unfortunate things to the younger vampires they have had in their grasp."

For a long moment the only sound was the susurration of leaves until his voice hissed out, "What have you done to her?"

Serana stared back at the faint gleam that told her where the eyes of the assassin were, "What I had to, to keep her from running. I have to release her willingly, or at any point, near or far, I can break her mind with a thought." Aversion to temples or not, Serana prayed this assassin wasn't someone would could sense lies.

"You will release her!" the figure snarled.

"Perhaps. I need to speak with her first. I need to know how well you keep your word, and as she is right now, she will have to tell me honestly. What name do I give her?" she asked, still backing slowly toward the house.

"Tell her the Shadowscale has come for her," he replied after a moment. Serana was impressed, despite herself. Tales of the Shadowscales had been told for hundreds of years, and most of what they whispered didn't bode well for those caught on the wrong end of their blade. On the other hand, they were supposed to be honorable. Well, as honorable as assassins could get.

Her back hit the door. Propping the kettle awkwardly against her hip, she reached back and tripped the latch, never taking her eyes off the Shadowscale until the door eclipsed the night. Rushing to the hearth, she placed the kettle beside it and ran to the Alchemy Lab. Babette's head reared up like a startled mare's, and to her credit the table was strewn with the right ingredients for curing ordinary poisons, set out in tiny, precisely measured piles or in the small ceramic cups Ysmir used to hold powders and liquids.

"Your friend the Shadowscale is outside," she said, watching the girl's eyes widen slightly, her lips part just a bit in surprise. "If I traded you to him, as he demands, would he keep his word and give me the cure?"

Babette nodded, glanced at the table, then sighed. "If he promised to trade the cure for my release, he would keep to the letter of the bargain."

"But not the spirit," Serana supposed. Divines, but she was tired. So tired she was vaguely surprised her brain was still working.

"No. Not the spirit. He could give you the raw ingredients, but not the instructions for how to use it," the small assassin sighed and winced. "You can release the pressure on my mind, already. I'm getting a headache."

"Let's go," Serana ordered, heading back outside, the younger vampire following silently in her wake.

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* * *

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Babette felt such a surge of homesickness when she saw Veezara that she was momentarily embarrassed. Having spent years in the same Sanctuary as he, she had little trouble discerning her fellow assassin in the darkness under the trees, and walked right to him.

"Well," she greeted him, "this is embarrassing."

He nodded his own greeting. "It is good to see you, little Sister. I trust you've not told them anything…unfortunate."

Ah, Veezara. It was nice to be around someone not totally motivated by sentiment for a change. "They never even asked," she replied with relief.

The Argonian snorted in disbelief. "Are they stupid?" he wondered aloud.

"A bit, but mostly just soft-hearted and filled with parental instincts," Babette said with a shrug, watching his gaze light with understanding.

"There's still a bargain to be made," Serana reminded them tightly.

Veezara's eyes flickered to the other vampire, and Babette could tell that he wished to kill her, but something held him back. He thrust a package at the Volkihar. "Here is your cure. Now release her mind."

"What is it and how do I make it?" she asked, glancing down at the package but not touching it. Babette smirked. Chances were about half and half that the bag itself was covered in contact poison that would soak through skin and not scales.

Veezara's gaze flickered to her and she gave a shrug, expression rueful. "This is the stalk of the flower that poisoned the humans. It needs to steep in boiling water and be wrung out several times, then the water boiled down to a third it's volume and mixed with vinegar. After that, add it to a Cure Poison potion and give it to the humans with food. They will start to sweat out the sickness caused by the nectar."

"How did you poison them in the first place?" Serana asked him, wrapping her hands in her cloak before touching the bag.

"I fed the oil of the flowers into the stream that leads into your baths," he replied, voice rich with professional pride. The corners of his mouth twitched a bit. "You might have noticed; they smell very similar to roses."

Serana nodded; the baths would have flowed clear of the poison by now, and she could tell Ysmir that the stream needed to be grated up against Argonians. Backing once again to the house without turning, she gazed hard at Babette, orange eyes shining like coals.

The restrictions on her mind disappeared with what Babette felt ought to have been an audible popping noise. Watching as the Volkihar entered the house again, she minutely examined her own mind, searching for any trace of the older vampire. There was none; she must be more tried (or more foolish) than Babette had previously estimated. She turned back to Veezara, who seemed very pleased with himself. "So what didn't you tell her?"

"Which Cure Poison recipe to use, of course," he hissed his amusement. "It's not a common one."

"Which one?" she asked, and he looked at her suspiciously.

"Are you still under her control, Babette?" he asked worriedly.

"No," the vampire answered shortly. "Which potion?" she repeated, then nodded shortly when he told her. "Right," she said decisively, heading back toward the house. "If I'm not back in an hour, don't tell anyone I did this."

"What are you doing?" he asked in astonishment, jogging a few steps to catch up to her.

She looked up at him. "Aventus Aretino is in that house," she said, surprising him. "It would be a shame to lose a future Brother because he had the bad luck to get adopted by a woman someone wants dead."

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**Hello, everyone! I hoped you enjoyed the chapter! ****This week has been so hectic; I've been learning what I need to know for my new job and I feel a bit like someone's been stuffing my head like a Thanksgiving turkey. There's so much to learn and sort out in so little time.! It's been fun, though. My new co-workers seem nice, and if I can just get through the Christmas season, I think this is a place I could enjoy working at for a long while.**

**Welcome new watchers!**

**Wynni: While Randsome of Red Chief is hilarious (and frighteningly similar to my first baby-sitting experience) I had a different approach in mind. I hoped you liked it anyway. Thank you for all your help this last week. **

**For everyone who was wondering about the hidden clue in last week's title, it was an allusion to the theme song from the 1968 version of Romeo and Juliet. It also was a clue about Veezara's poison, which smelt faintly of roses, and to Babette herself. _"A rose will bloom, it then will fade. So does a youth, so does the fairest maid."_ (_What is a Youth,_ Romeo and Juliet, Capitol Records, LLC) Growing up, my mother had a music box that played this song, and it is one of my favorite to sing. If you've never heard it (and you probably have and just don't realize), I strongly suggest going and listening to it at least once. **

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**Next Week: Back in Skyrim, Ysmir receives some letters and forgets that she's a squishy mage and that she doesn't have a follower to play tank at the moment. In other words, she gets herself in trouble and proves Vilkas right, again.**


	32. Chapter 32: Letters

"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver—your hands only."

Ysmir raked her fingers through her hair as she watched the courier, grimacing. Divines, she needed a bath. By the time Odahviing had broken free of Miraak's Shout, they were close to land, so rather than take her home, he had dropped her off (very nearly literally) and flown off to take his frustration out on something rend-able, like a mammoth, or a bandit camp. Ysmir felt very, very sorry for the next creature her friend encountered, but in the meantime, she was stuck walking to Windhelm, where she could catch a wagon to Whiterun, then head home. She hated wagons—wagons had taken her to many places she didn't want to travel to, such as the Thalmor Embassy, her arranged marriage, and, in one very memorable case, her imminent execution.

"Let's see here…wow, a letter…no, _two_ letters from a jarl," the courier's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "Moving up in the world."

"Same jarl?" she asked, taking them and leafing through the small packet. There was a letter from Lydia and one from the twins, as well. She paused, glancing at the courier as he was about to excuse himself. "How do you always find me so easily? All the other couriers find me in towns—you seem to be able to track me right through the wilderness."

The courier froze, then flushed. "I…ah…Just have a knack for finding people, I guess."

She snorted. "Some knack. Are you planning on running back? I could use some company if you feel like walking awhile."

He looked uncomfortable, "Well, that is…"

"No then," she sighed. It wasn't the first time she'd wandered alone for days. "All right. See you again."

The courier gave an awkward wave and raced off, faster than he had approached. She almost smiled, wondering what he was hiding. His way of finding his messages' recipients could be anything from having a really good pendulum and minor scrying ability to being a werewolf. She doubted the last, though, since she had had messages delivered while in the company of one or more Companion, and they had never said.

Then again, would they? It wasn't like it was really her business who was a werewolf and who wasn't, provided they weren't trying to tear her apart. Giving an internal shrug, she opened the first letter, then promptly felt the need to sit down.

_"My Thane,_

_Firstly, everyone is all right. The household was poisoned by a member of the Dark Brotherhood, and we were forced to trade the child assassin for the cure. Inigo has brought a Healer to the manor, and she pronounced us fine. Serana blames herself, and Aventus has been very quiet. Sofie lost one of her little patients, but was somewhat cheered at the lessons in bonesetting the Healer gave her. She and Runa went with Inigo when he took the Healer back to Falkreath so she could give them a few more lessons before she returns to Cyrodiil. _

_Just keeping you appraised._

_Your Housecarl,_

_Lydia_

Ysmir lifted her head, staring blankly at the rotund flakes of white that drifted from the interminably gray sky. They had been poisoned. Her family had been poisoned, and she hadn't been there to help them. She crumpled the letter as her hands bunched into fists. This never would have happened if she had just killed Babette when she met her on the road. But she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. If she could go back…well, she consoled herself, getting a handle on her emotions, everything was alright now.

Except that her children had almost lost their lives due to her weakness.

Divines have mercy on the next assassin they sent after her, because she was going to take this out of their hide.

Wondering if Vilkas had written more about it, she tore open the next letter, but, much to her surprise, it was in Farkas's meticulous script. She was always startled by Farkas's handwriting, because he always took his time with the letters and almost never scribbled, so everything looked as neat and organized as if he had a priestess with a switch waiting for him to make a wrong stroke. His spelling, however, was usually fairly creative.

_Ysmir,_

_Aela and Vil and me went back to Jorvaskr to deel with the Silver Hand. A bunch of them ataked Aela and we fownd out thay ar going to seeg it. We wil return wen we can._

_Farkas_

Ysmir closed her eyes and counted to ten. Someone attacking Jorvaskr? That was insane—you'd need a small army, and the chances of get a small army through Whiterun without actually involving the town were nil. Right on the heels of that thought was that they hadn't been there to defend the children, despite how preposterous an attack on the mead hall was. Her head told her they had no other choice; she would have been the first to tell them to go if she had been there! But she hadn't, and they had left, and the children had been attacked.

Vil would probably react worse than her when he found out.

Her eyes popped open with the thought, and she berated herself for feeling so betrayed and angry. No one had seen this coming, and the Companions were just as important as her family—perhaps more, in some eyes. The twins and Aela were members of the Circle, so it was their job to take such threats seriously. Standing, she paced down the road in the cold, letting it clear her head. The children were fine, she repeated to herself, thoughts churning guiltily, so much so that she barely noticed where she was going, only that the cobbles continued.

She should have known. She should have guessed that the Dark Brotherhood would send someone to extract Babette. They hadn't seemed to care when she killed their members, though, why should she have thought they would even know she had held the vampire captive, rather than killing her?

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she should have known.

These thoughts whirled around and around in her mind as she walked, finally stopping to open one of the other letters to give herself something else to think about. Another surprise, it was from Hrongar. Frowning and wondering what Balgruuf's brother could possibly want from her, she opened it, settling herself on another rock.

_Dragonborn,_

_I have a bit of a personal request for you. I know that you have many adopted children, and Lydia has told me that they are fine boys and girls. Therefore, I thought you might be able to aid me. My brother's children are out of control. They grow more spoiled with every passing day, and my brother is too busy with the hold and the war to do much besides lecture them. Children are not my strength, but you are good with them. Anything, anything at all, that you can do to help turn these brats back into the niece and nephews I remember would be greatly appreciated._

_Hrongar_

She crumpled it up, too. As if she didn't have enough problems, what with the Dark Brotherhood coming after her family and the father of her child plotting to take over the world.

"What do we have here?"

Speaking of problems…She looked up as the speaker stepped between her and the sun. An Orc the size of one of the twins in their hairier moments was smirking down at her, naked greatsword resting lightly against his shoulder guard. Raising an eyebrow, she looked around him, spotting several other men in the raggedy armor of bandits. She'd wandered right to the path up to a cave and hadn't even noticed.

"Looks like a little mage-girl lost her way," sneered his High Elf companion. That was new—Ysmir couldn't actually remember having ever seen any Altmer—even an Altmer bandit—willingly being cohorts with an Orc, unless one counted the librarian in Winterhold, but he was a special case on many levels. Urag only went into berserker rage if someone damaged a book.

The Orc apparently took her silence for fear and crouched in front of her, looking her over. "She's a tiny little thing. Doesn't look dangerous at all," he smiled, reaching out with the handle of his weapon to lift a strand of hair.

She watched him passively, anger and guilt simmering inside her. Poison. Why hadn't she warded them against poison? It was a measure she had taken for herself, but not for them. The Orc patted her cheek with his pommel nut, regaining her attention to the matter at hand. Normally, she didn't let herself get close enough to be surrounded by attackers, and had at least one follower to distract them as she worked her magic. It had been a long time since she was so thoroughly outnumbered when alone. Tilting her head to the side, she considered the problem as they assessed her.

"She doesn't look wealthy," a new voice piped up uncertainly. This one was a Dunmer, who looked very uncomfortable. Ysmir focused on him, and he looked away. New recruit, apparently.

Surprisingly, there was only one human in the entire group, a Breton who looked her over briskly. "That's the sigil for Destruction magic on her robes. Just have her toss over her money and let's get out of here."

A second Dark Elf shook his head in disgust at him, walking forward to join the others. "You do Destruction magic, little girl?" he asked her, putting his hands on his hips and leaning down a bit.

She tilted her head, hands calmly folding her missives, both read and unread, and putting them in her bag. "No one's called me 'little girl' in a while," she observed. She certainly didn't feel young.

The Altmer laughed. "You can't be much more than twenty," he said, walking behind her.

The Dragonborn shrugged. "Twenty-five, or thereabouts." Without a real birthday she tended to forget.

The Orc grinned around his tusks. "Pretty thing like you could give us more than money," he suggested. Ysmir tartly told him to take his friends back to the skeever hole they crawled out of and do several acts that would be quiet physically difficult for anyone but a contortionist. The Orc threw back his head and howled with laughter. "Ha! Let's keep this one awhile!"

The Breton rolled his eyes. "Why, because she possibly has a dirtier mind than you? I don't want to keep someone around with Destruction magic in the first place, and she's not so very pretty that I would risk it."

"Mages sell good," the Orc argued, not taking his eyes off her. "As for her mind…" he leaned down, grabbing her chin between two thick, green fingers. "Let's test that, shall we?"

Ysmir looked into his slightly yellowed eyes and whispered, _"Faas."_

His eyes widened and he took a step back, releasing her face as his friends looked at him in confusion, having not heard her _thu'um_. She smiled grimly, a Bound Sword appearing in her hand.

The reluctant Dunmer was the only one to notice. "Look ou—!" he began.

Ysmir whirled while those nearest her were still staring at the Orc, catching the second Dunmer across the stomach with the curved blade of the conjured weapon and slicing a narrow cut across the Altmer's thigh as he jumped back. For a moment, she let her eyes drop, watching the Dark Elf gasp and writhe, trying to hold his organs in is body with his gauntleted hands. Somehow, she had managed to miss cutting any further than the sack that held them, inflicting no damage on the insides themselves. Oh, well. The cold was doing enough; frost was already forming on the gleaming entrails.

"You bitch!" the Altmer snarled, drawing his sword and summoning fire.

She laughed, holding her arms wide in blatant invitation as she nodded at the flames flickering around his sepia-tinged knuckles. He looked rather like a mule as he barred his teeth, flinging the spell at her, then gaping just a bit as it barely singed her robes. "Thanks. I was getting a little cold," she told him with exaggerated cheer. "Want to see what a real flame spell looks like?" she offered, and Incinerated him on the spot.

The Conjured Familiar took her a bit by surprise, silently appearing behind her amid the High Elf's screams. The bite didn't go too far through her heavy winter layers, but did knock her off-balance, making her whirl away and stumble in the snow. A quick glance over her shoulder proved the caster to be the Breton, who merely watched with a self-satisfied smirk on his face more befitting a Thalmor.

She understood why when the spirit wolf shoved her onto an Ice Rune.

Ysmir gasped as splinters of ice pierced her clothing and skin, her movements slowed considerably as she tried to summon a Healing Spell. An enraged roar from behind made her turn, ducking under the attack from the Orsimer, her heart beating wildly as she realized how close he had been to crushing her skull. His shield hand reached down to catch her ankle, and she gasped in dismay as her feet were pulled out from under her, throwing her head and shoulders to the ground before being dragged backwards.

"Those were my comrades!" he spat at her, holding her upside down and farther from the ground than she would have liked. Ysmir could only stared at him, still slowed from the frost and nearly passing out as all the blood rushed to her head. Dropping his sword completely, he punched her in the stomach, making her double up (as much as she could, upside down, anyway). The Orc used the opportunity to grasp her by the hair, bringing her face closer to his. He'd had horker stew some time that day. "I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born," he promised, his grip on her ankle becoming punishingly tight.

"She can't have much magicka left in her, after that," the Breton put in, leaning on his staff and examining her. "I have a poison or two that will ensure she doesn't get it back any time soon."

"Good," the Orc nodded, shaking her and making the bones in her ankle grind together. She whimpered, and he smiled. "Now, we're going to take you back to our—"

Ysmir didn't let him finish, kicking him in the face with her other foot and flipping as he dropped her, feeling something crunch under her heal. The ankle he had held wouldn't support her weight and she sprawled ungracefully in the snow. This would happen when she didn't have a follower, wouldn't it?

The Breton ran toward her, and she threw a handful of snow in his face, making him pause instinctively to brush it out of his eyes. Grabbing the end of his staff, she pulled, sent him tumbling into the snow next to her, snatched up his dagger and buried it in his throat.

The Orsimer bellowed in renewed rage, tackling her without even bothering to stand from where he had stumbled when she broke his nose. He was huge; she couldn't draw breath. Pinning both her hands as she struggled, he head-butted her, making her see stars and cutting twin furrows in her cheeks with his tusks. "Sethel!" he growled at the reluctant Dunmer, who so far had been unable to do much more than stare at the scene. "Get your useless ass over here and _do_ something!"

Looking severely uncomfortable, the Dark Elf came to stand over them. "Like what?" he asked, looking at her uncertainly. The woman was turning a bit purple from being unable to draw breath.

"Knock her out! Kick her head! Anything is better than standing around like a milk-drinker, you dammed fool!" the Orc ground out.

That was when Ysmir burst into flame.

Sethel the Dunmer yelped and fell backwards into the snow, rapidly patting out the flames in his armor. Ysmir didn't pay attention; she was too busy staring at the sky as the Orc atop her turned to ash, managing to injure one of her wrists in his death throws. It was familiar enough to a scene that still played in her nightmares that she barely noticed her physical injuries. Dazedly, she wondered why killing them with a sword rather than just burning them all to a crisp to start with had seemed like such a good idea.

Heavy, terrified breathing shook her out of her contemplation of the soft, wispy bits of cloud that covered the sky so solidly. Craning her neck just a little, she rolled her eyes upward until she could see the last bandit. He gazed back at her with absolute horror, clutching his dagger to his chest. "Are you going to do anything?" she inquired curiously after a moment or two.

Sethel shook his head emphatically. "Please…" he begged.

Ysmir laughed breathlessly. "Not much of a bandit, are you?" she gazed back up at the sky, wishing absently that the snow around her hadn't melted; it would have numbed her ankle and wrist.

"I…I needed the money," he stated. "My son…he's sick."

She thought about that. "Live in Windhelm, do you?" she surmised, her brain finally beginning to work its way out of the sluggish, shocked state it had been in ever since she read Lydia's letter.

Her fault.

"Ulfric conscripted all the human healers," he told her. "The ones left have doubled their prices. I can't afford that!"

"I'll make you a deal," she told him, much to his shock. "Bring me my bag, and I'll let you take one of my Cure Disease Potions. You have to bring my bag here, though; I use different color bottles so I don't have to label them."

It only took him a moment to make up his mind. Gingerly, he knelt beside her, putting her pack within her reach. "Now, give me the big blue bottle," she instructed. It would be useless to drink health potions at this point, not with broken bones. No, she was going to have to heal herself, slowly, as she manipulated things back into place.

Terrific.

Sitting up took more effort than she thought it would, and she realized that the Orc had probably cracked some ribs. She whimpered, and Sethel frowned. "If you could do this…" he gestured around them, "…why did you let them…?"

"Self-flagellation, I suppose," she told him, head throbbing with the sound of her blood pounding in her ears. "Also, I expected your big green friend to run away. He was more stubborn than I gave him credit for." Grimacing, she took a gulp of the potion, feeling her magicka returning more swiftly with its aid. Honestly, she'd still had enough to kill the Orc with, but it was hard to focus on a spell when being dangled upside down. It was going to take more than she had currently to heal herself, though.

Laying back on the sodden ground, she first ran a hand over her bruised stomach and ribs, hand glowing gold as she gingerly felt the bones. The lowest two were fractured, but not out of place. She healed them, then took another drink. Once she was able to sit up, she lifted her left arm with a hiss of pain and felt around her swollen wrist. Not broken; dislocated. Putting the swelling down and holding the pain at bay with the spell, she popped it back into place, soothing the cartilage and ligaments surrounding it.

Now for the fun part.

Poking around her swollen ankle felt a lot like she was shoving a nail into it, even with the healing spell going constantly. Finally, she managed to get things more-or-less in place, but she knew she'd have to see a real healer soon to make sure she hadn't set the bones wrong. Ysmir sighed and looked up at Sethel consideringly. He backed away, eyes wide, and she shook her head. No help there, not that she had really expected there to be. Reaching into her bag, she selected the appropriate potion and tossed it to him. "Here. That should take care of your son. No more banditry, alright?" He nodded shakily. "Now, go home to your child, and let me get home to mine," she told him.

His eyes widened, "You're a mother?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Mother, mage, idiot; that's me. Now go!"

The would-be bandit couldn't get away from her fast enough. Downing what little was left of the potion—they didn't keep well after being opened—she put the bottle back in her bag, pausing when her hand hit a soul gem. "I'm even more of an idiot than usual, lately," she mused, staring at the thing.

The Breton's staff—closer inspection revealed it to be a Staff of Frenzy—served as an adequate crutch as she got to her feet, cautiously putting weight on her ankle. It held, but it still throbbed. Taking a deep breath, she cast another spell, one she had not used in so long she had almost forgotten she had it.

The familiar whirling black orb marking a Conjuration appeared, hovering a moment on the road before her, then dissipating. In its place stood a skeletal horse with blue flaming mane and tail, which whickered excitedly and pushed his skull into her chest. She smiled, even though the push set her slightly off-balance. "Hello, Arvak," she greeted him. "Care to help a woman out?"

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**This is, admittedly, one of my least favorite chapters-who likes to write about their lead getting thrashed? I kinda felt it was needed, however, both to showcase that Ysmir is as fallible as anybody (as if that wasn't readily apparent) and because hearing about her children made her really distracted and even more reckless than usual. Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed it. **

**So I was rather tickled pink this week when I saw that I had four days of more than a hundred viewers each, and three reviews! And a fifth day with just under a hundred views!**

**Thank you for reviewing, guys! It always brings a smile to my face!**

**Wicked Lullaby: Despite her age, Serana comes off as very young sometimes. I blame it on being stuck in a monolith for who knows how long. Helplessness is a universal-we've all felt it and we all can relate. Poor Serana's just been dumped into situations where it's all she can feel more often than most, but what I love about her is that she still tries her best to do something, despite being at a loss or not knowing if she's actually making a difference. **

**Wynni: Yup, that was her only reason. ;) As for the Silver Hand, it has more to do with being honorable than being practical. The two don't always go hand in hand. I think what Kodlak means is that if they go slaughter the Silver Hand on a perceived threat, aren't they just proving that they're the rabid animals the werewolf hunters believe they are? Whoever stays their hand has the moral highground, and at the moment it would be the Companions, if Vil, Farkas, and Aela hadn't gone hunting. Also, the leaders of the SH could decide that attacking Jorrvaskr-which is not entirely peopled with werewolves and sits in the middle of a town full of innocents, besides-is too costly, and start drafting up a new campaign. After all, attacking a hold will make them outlaws, no matter their motives. With the provocation of the Circle actively hunting them as well, however, they could decide to just get it over with, and damn the consequences. **

**Roger509: I can't tell if you think this is a good thing or a bad thing. **

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**Next week: We check back in with the children and their shenanigans. **


	33. Chapter 33: Fus

Aventus was still abed. Everyone else was up and about, even though they were still somewhat recovering, but here he laid, his back to her, refusing to talk to anybody.

"I brought you a sweetroll," Darva told him.

He didn't move. There was nothing to indicate he had even heard her.

"I'll put it here, then," she told him, sliding it onto the nightstand beside the bed. "I hope you feel better," she added, then turned to go, hesitated, and looked back. Not so much as a twitch.

Miss Serana said Aventus had gotten sick more than anybody except Lucia, but Lucia was up now. Lydia said he was sulking because he blamed himself. Darva thought he was just sad that Babette had left, and that her family had been mean to their family to get her back.

"Do you know what Miss Serana said?" she finally said. "She said that Babette's brother gave her the stuff to make medicine, but didn't tell her how to make it work. She said Babette came back on her own to make sure she made it right." Finally, Aventus stirred. He didn't turn to look at her, but there was just enough movement to let her know she had caught his attention. "I just thought you should know, if nobody told you," she added, then left to go outside.

Getting past the adults hadn't been easy for the last few days. They kept checking in on the children to ensure that they didn't exert themselves and fall back into sickness. Darva thought that was stupid, since the grownups were doing twice as much as any of them. Runa and Sofie had gone with the nice healer-lady to Falkreath, making Darva quite envious, since she had never been to Falkreath. Actually, she had never been to any of the towns. She'd never left the lands surrounding the manor, now that she thought of it, save that one time she went with Momma to that cold building on that big mountain with all the nice old men. They had gotten to ride Odahviing, though, so that more than made up for it.

She was quite out of breath when she reached her meeting place with Bormah. She wondered if he had missed her. With everything that had been going on, she hadn't been able to come up here and call him. Was telling him about Babette a good idea? Darva couldn't tell. On the one hand, she wanted to talk to him about it, but on the other, he was an adult, and she knew the other adults wanted vengeance on Babette's family, which seemed to consist mostly of brothers, for some reason: A "brotherhood." Briefly, she wondered what the parents did, that it was all brothers and Babette. Maybe they didn't like girls all that much?

Darva paused at an unexpected sound that reverberated off the rock. She had just been about to call Bormah, but…She peeked over the edge of the rise, where the stream that flowed past her little cabin turned into a babbling brook as it arched over a long bed of pebbles. There it was again, echoing faintly off the cliff face. Curiosity officially piqued, she scrambled down the incline to the little meadow where Aventus had met Babette and beyond, to a trail that kept going until it was too far for them to travel and be back before dinner time.

It was down that trail she found Alesan.

"Foos road ah!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

For a long moment, she could only stare, wondering why he was saying it like that, and why he was standing like he was about to have a face-off with a cave bear. "What are you doing?" she asked curiously, scaring him into jumping.

"Darva!" he gasped, turning quite red. "I didn't hear you come up."

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to be sneaky, but you looked busy," she said, tucking a curl back behind her ear. Her hair was getting long again, but the last time she had hacked it off with one of Uncle Inigo's daggers everyone had gotten mad at her. She couldn't imagine why; it was her head. On the other hand, everyone else had to look at it far more often than she did.

"I'm…" he paused, glancing around like he suspected she had brought the rest of their siblings with her, "I'm trying to Shout," he whispered.

"You're doing it wrong," she informed him.

"I know!" he ground out, giving her a frustrated look and running his fingers through his short black curls much like the Papas did when they argued with Momma. "But I don't know what I'm doing wrong! Maybe…" he slumped, "Maybe you gotta be Dragonborn to Shout."

Darva thought a moment. "Momma is supposed to be the only Dragonborn—well, Momma and Bor—maybe me. But the Greybeards Shout, and that Stormcloak man supposedly Shouted the High King all to bits. So I think you could Shout, if you really wanted to."

"I do really want to!" he enthused, looking a little desperate. "I really, really want to, but I've been trying for weeks, and nothing happens." With a heavy sigh he sank down to sit cross-legged in the dirt.

Darva joined him, tucking her skirt about her knees. She wondered absently when she'd be allowed to wear pants like Runa did. "Well, you are saying it wrong," she informed him hesitantly. Alesan wasn't one to get mad easily, but he seemed pretty frustrated already.

"How did you learn it?" he asked, looking at her hopefully.

"Uh…" she hopped back up to her feet, glancing around. The ground below them was soft and dusty, so that wouldn't work… "Ah!" she said, turning to the cliff face. _"Fus!"_ she Shouted, and was instantly rewarded by the familiar cuneiform of the Dragon Tongue, freshly gouged into the rock. "There!" she said with satisfaction, gesturing to the markings. "Stare at that for a bit."

Alesan stumbled over and squinted at the marking, his face so creased in concentration she wondered if he were going to get a headache. "Feel anything?" she asked after a few moments.

He sagged, looking frustrated again. "No. Was I supposed to?"

"I felt like the Words were trying to seep in through my skin," she revealed, and he gave her a sort of aghast look, like she would a dead slug or something, and she flushed. "It sounds gross like that. It's like…Oh, I don't know. Like I already knew the Word, but I had forgotten it, and now I remembered."

"I didn't feel anything like that," he replied, then gave her a wan smile. "Fus?"

She nodded, "Fus," she confirmed. "It means 'force,' or 'push.'" Darva put her hand to her chin like she had seen the adults do while thinking. Of course, she didn't have a beard to stroke, so her fingers remained still. "The Greybeards said they med-it-ate on the word, which means they think about it a whole lot. They did a lot of that when they weren't talking at me. They would sit like they were praying for hours and hours, then go to the edge of the mountain and Shout. They said they Shout to ven-er-ate the Divines, and that's why they only Shout at the sky, not at people."

Alesan looked thoughtful. "Thanks, Honey-Bee. I'm going to try it."

His sister looked at him doubtfully. "You're going to sit in one spot all afternoon thinking about pushing things when you yell?"

"Yes," he replied with a shrug.

"Why?" she finally managed.

"Because you can Shout, and Runa can hit almost anything Auntie Aela can hit with a bow, and Aventus can sneak past anybody and fight really good to boot, Blaise can pick any lock in the house, Sofie's real good with animals, and Lucia can take apart those Dwarf things and put them back together right without the adults even noticing she did it."

Darva looked at him blankly, and he sighed. "Everyone's good at something 'cept me. Hags tits—Lucia's good at _everything_ and thinks she's good at nothing! But I'm _really _no good at anything! I mean, I'm alright at some things, but I'm not special at all!" He sank back onto the path and glared hopelessly at his feet like they were to blame.

She looked at him with wide eyes, "You said a bad word!" she whispered, glancing around as if Papa Vilkas would suddenly jump out from behind a bush.

"No one is here, Darva," he grumbled without looking up.

"The Papas think you'll be good with a two-handed sword like Papa Vilkas," she informed him. "You're already really strong."

"I know I'm strong, but that's about it. Face it, Darva; anyone born under the Steed Stone is pretty strong. But," Darva had to lean in to hear him, "I don't wanna fight,"

For a second she thought she had heard him wrong. "What do you mean, you don't wanna fight? I thought all boys wanted to fight. _I_ want to fight, and I'm not even a boy."

"I don't like fighting," he ground out, giving her a dirty look. "I'm no good at it, I can't seem to keep myself from getting hit all the time, and I don't wanna go off killing people just so I can drink about it later while everyone tells me what a hero I am!"

"Oh," she said, looking away.

"Yeah," he agreed, tossing a pebble over the side of the cliff, "Oh."

"Well…" she thought hard, "I'm sure there's something you could do where you wouldn't need to kill people."

Alesan snorted. "You've never really been away from the house, Darva. I lived alone in Dawnstar for a couple of months before Mother found me. I tried a bunch of stuff to get by, but the only thing I managed to do well was run lunches back and forth for the miners."

"Miners don't have to fight!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, they do. Even if they don't run into frostbite spiders or accidently tunnel into a tomb full of draugr, miners get cheated real easy if they can't fight. I don't wanna live like that. In Skyrim, it's fight or be walked all over. Or be a mage, and I'm no good at being a mage, neither," he thought for a moment, "I don't think," he amended. "At least, I didn't understand more'n half of what that guy in Dawnstar was trying to tell me when I asked him."

She shrugged. "I guess you're right; you'll have to become a Greybeard."

He looked at her like she was crazy. "What?"

"Isn't that why you're learning to Shout? If you figure out how to Shout like the Greybeards can Shout, then they'll have to take you, and they don't fight at all, but no one bothers them, because they can Shout. Problem solved."

Alesan blinked, then engulfed her in a hug so tight she felt her bones creak. "That's perfect! Darva, you're a gem! I gotta start thinking real hard about force and pushing so I can Shout!"

"Of course," she felt obligated to point out when he released her, "There were no girls but us at High Rothgi, so if you become a Greybeard, you can't marry Lucia."

He sighed. "I probably can't marry Lucia anyways. We were adopted by the same woman, and I think there're laws against that sorta thing."

"If you were at the same orphanage it would have been alright," she thought so, anyway.

"But now she's my sister, and people would look at that weird," he countered, giving another sigh. "Nah. She'll probably grow up, find some adventurer to guard her in in those dwarf ruins, marry him, and spend the rest of their lives pokin' 'round underground."

Darva wrinkled her nose. "Probably."

"What do you wanna do, Darva?" he asked, suddenly interested. "When you grow up, I mean."

She shrugged. "I want to be a dragon."

"You can't be a dragon," he informed her.

"Nope. So I guess I'll be a mapmaker, so I have a reason to ride on Odahviing so I can look down at the world," she sighed dreamily, and Alesan chuckled.

"Oh, shoot!" he suddenly exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "The sun's going down!"

"Eep!" Darva squeaked, scrambling right from a seated position to a run as both children realized they were late for dinner.

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The marks were deep and clear, and obviously fresh. The edges felt sharp and hard against her roughened skin, and her hands curled into fists as she stared at them. She turned back to look at her companion. "Which of them did this?" Delphine asked the younger Blade.

He shrugged. Rainer was a man of few words. Formerly a Redguard mercenary, he had come to Skyrim to find some woman, then remained to fight dragons with the Blades. He still carried the long, curved sword he had brought with him, and wore the strange draped headpiece rather than a helm. "I couldn't see very well. Trees in the way. A boy and a girl were up here—the Redguard and the little blonde one."

Delphine took a deep breath, fighting for patience. "Which little blonde one?"

"The honey-colored one, not the mouse-colored one," he replied. "The small one."

The leader of the Blades nodded, gaze returning to the markings. She wished she had kept better note of where the Dragonborn had picked up her stray children. Esbern might know, but she was a bit suspicious of him at the moment. He had kept secrets in the past, such as Ysmir having spent time in an orphanage run by Thalmor. There was more to that story, for certain.

"Don't tell anyone about this," she instructed, turning away. "We keep this to ourselves for now."

He nodded, rather than reply. Delphine smiled grimly. The Dragonborn was hiding something—she had always been hiding something. But this time, Delphine thought she knew what it was.

And she knew exactly how to use it to her advantage.

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**Hi, guys. Bit of a crappy day, so I'll keep it short. I hope you like what I'm doing with the kids!**

**Welcome, new followers and favorites!**

**Wynni: If nothing else, Dragonborn are good at kicking tail. Thanks for reviewing!**

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**Next Week: Ysmir gets to Whiterun where she has a serious discussion with Kodlak and has to tell the twins about Lydia's letter. Oh, and she opens the final one. **


	34. Chapter 34: A Quick Visit to the Temple

Jorrvaskr needed a few new roof planks, Ysmir thought, looking up the steps at it. Of course, the roof of the mead hall was supposedly the same ship that had brought Ysgramor and his five hundred companions to Tamriel in the first place—but Ysmir severely doubted that. Oh, sure, the original ship had probably graced the top of the building once (Nords were just stubborn enough to cart a ship over their heads for days of travel in a mountainous region, common sense be dammed), but by now so many bits and pieces had been replaced or repaired that she didn't think any of the original ship remained, unless they had re-used nails.

"Terrible and powerful Talos! We, your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment!"

She shot an irate look at the bellowing priest of Talos. Really, she had to wonder how he had never been picked up by the Thalmor parties that wandered Skyrim in search of Talos worshipers. It was a miracle, quite frankly. Maybe Talos did have something to do with it. If so, she was going to have a few words with her fellow Dovahkiin in the afterlife about public disturbances.

"Dragonborn, what a rare pleasure."

Ysmir blinked and turned, smiling slightly. "Kodlak, what are you doing out here?"

He chuckled. "I am not so old that I can't walk around Whiterun, young lady," he said with mock sternness. "You've come looking for the boys?"

"Actually, I need to see Danica Pure-Spring; I have an ankle that needs seen to," she told him. It was no use lying to Kodlak, even if he hadn't been a werewolf. "Then I was going to see the twins. Is the siege over with, then?"

"It hasn't happened," he told her, offering the support of his arm as she limped her way to the Temple of Kynareth. "You might have noticed Balgruuf increased the guard. He was rather insulted that this group thought to attack anyone in his city, as if he wouldn't protect his people, whether they needed his help or not," the Harbinger added that last part quite wryly.

"So they're still here? I wondered what they would decide," she said softly.

Kodlak frowned. "'Decide'?" he echoed. "What would they need to decide?"

Ysmir shrugged. "Which crisis they wanted to see to." Her eyes widened as he started to look worried and puzzled. "Lydia didn't write them?"

"Has something happened to the children?" he asked with considerable alarm, halting.

Ysmir looked around and then, rather than tell him aloud, handed him Lydia's letter. He read it quickly, eyebrows coming together with an almost audible snap.

"They didn't know, Ysmir, I can assure you that. They went to cut off smaller groups of Silver Hand—quite foolishly, I might add—and returned here to train the new recruits in more advanced techniques. They've been thinking about going back for days, but there was little urgency. They seemed to think they were safe with the warriors already there."

Sighing as she pushed open the door, Ysmir was saved any further response by Danica rushing up. "Kodlak, is everything alright?" she asked, looking him over.

The Harbinger's eyebrows rose slightly. "It is the Dragonborn who needs your assistance, woman. I am not so frail as everyone has been acting of late."

The priestess flushed, "Of course," she said, gesturing for Ysmir to take a seat on one of the benches. Noticing the limp, she knelt and felt down the mage's leg until Ysmir helpfully told her the problem, and some of the cause. She didn't miss Kodlak's frown of disapproval.

Danica rose to go get a second healer, and Ysmir glanced up at him. "What's that phrase you use? 'Pride comes before a fall'?"

He relaxed enough to smile slightly. "I don't know if I've used that, but I was certainly thinking something along those lines."

"It probably included some choice synonyms for 'idiot,'" she guessed, wrinkling her nose.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asked, unperturbed.

"Probably not," she admitted with a little shrug.

"Then, yes, there were."

"I received another letter from Lydia just as I got into town," she told him after a few moments of watching Danica run around. There were several other patients besides herself.

"Oh?" he prompted, sitting beside her.

"She says everyone is recovering well. Aventus is still abed, but she thinks that he's more heartsick than actually sick."

Kodlak shook his head. "But wounds of the heart can be more painful than any physical wound."

"I know," she replied, glaring down at her ankle. "If I ever see that little assassin again, I'm going to have a new bowl of vampire dust for the Alchemy Lab."

He was silent for a moment. "Is that what Aventus would want?"

"I don't know what he wants," she admitted. Danica finally came over, dragging a Redguard priestling who blushed to hold her leg, much to her amusement. He kept up a steady golden light as Danica re-broke the tiny bones with a miniature hammer and blunted chisel and manipulated them back into their proper settings. Ysmir gritted her teeth throughout this process, looking more like a dragon than usual, had she but known it.

"There. I wouldn't walk on it very much for the next few days," Danica advised, helping her slip back into her boot.

Ysmir frowned. "I need to get home."

"Then ride," the priestess suggested. "If you come back in here having undone all our work like you did with your collarbone—"

"I was seventeen!" Ysmir protested. "And I certainly didn't _ask_ that dragon to attack!"

Danica gave her a withering look and Kodlak laughed. "Ysmir, you're more than welcome to stay at Jorrvaskr tonight." He winked at Danica, "I'll tell the twins to carry her home like a sack of potatoes if she insists on leaving."

Ysmir groaned, but the priestess seemed mollified and left them to find their own way out. They stepped into the surprisingly bright sunlight just as a familiar figure darted around the Gildergreen. "Kodlak!" Farkas said worriedly, then stopped in confusion. "Ysmir?"

"Glad to see you too, Farkas," she said, amused.

He looked from one to the other. "Ria came in saying she saw you head into the Temple…"

Kodlak patted her shoulder. "That was for Ysmir. Be a good lad and help her up to the Hall. She's supposed to be staying off her ankle."

Ysmir's eyes widened, "Don't you dare," she warned the big Nord coming towards her, but Farkas lifted her right up, in view of everyone, carrying her like a fainting maiden across the Gildergreen square and up the steps of the mead hall. Kodlak followed, looking like he was laughing inwardly. She decided that things must be much less grim than when they sent out the letter for him to be in such good humor.

"Put her in my study, boy. We have things to discuss," Kodlak said, and Farkas nodded, carrying her downstairs (to the whoops of some of the younger Companions, who evidently thought they were going to the bedchambers) and depositing her gently in the furthest part of the Hall.

She glowered at him. "That was embarrassing."

He grinned. "Your face is almost as red as your hair."

"Wonderful," she groused, dropping into a chair with ill grace.

"You look cute," he assured her, giving her a quick kiss.

"Well, I feel like I just rode all the way from Eastmarch on the spine of a skeletal horse," she told him wearily, even though she found herself suddenly wanting him to carry her off to his room, to lose herself in something simple and pleasant for a while.

"I would not be surprised if that was truth," Kodlak teased, catching up to them.

"I'll go get Vil," Farkas said, starting to head out.

"Later," the elder Companion stated. "I have a few things I wish to discuss with our mage friend." Farkas looked surprised, then nodded, face filled with understanding. He closed the door behind him.

Ysmir shifted uncomfortably. Once, Kodlak had jokingly asked what her intentions were toward "his boys." He had been very startled to learn that the Dragonborn had no intention of marrying anyone, and she rather thought he disapproved of this. He wanted her to settle down with one or both of the twins, for some reason, but he wasn't willing to push them into it.

"Now," he said, handing her a bottle of mead, "I want to hear this story in full. I've been a werewolf longer than the twins have been alive—I can smell the misery around you, even if they cannot."

She stared, then, to her horror, felt moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. "It's my fault," she said simply, stamping down on the tears. There were very few people she would let herself cry in front of, and Kodlak was not one of them, despite the feeling she got around him that she could trust him completely. She'd had that feeling about Esbern, and look what had happened. "I knew she was an assassin, but I couldn't kill her when I met her because she looked so young. I knew she would come after me again. I just didn't think she would come after my children."

"You are talking about the vampire girl Vilkas complained to me about? The young one, not the shapely one," he surmised. At her nod, he reached over and patted her hand. "You've been attacked by assassins before. You know their habits. This was a serious break in habit, Ysmir. You couldn't have known. It is possible even the assassin did not know this would happen; certainly she didn't expect to get caught. And the assassins of the Dark Brotherhood are hardly known for rescuing each other from captivity."

She shrugged. "I still…I feel I should have known, somehow. Babette…she was craftier than any assassin sent after me. She waited. She set a trap designed specifically to lure me in, even possibly get into my home, if she didn't feel like killing me on the road. It was only because of a few little discrepancies that I even figured out it was a trap."

"What discrepancies?" he asked, cutting her a slice of meat pie.

Ysmir took a long drink of mead before answering, trying to pinpoint everything that had set off her warning bells that night. "First, the assassin that had been sent after me earlier that day was a warrior, not a mage, but there were robes set beside the bathing pool, not armor or clothes. Second, the pool was filled with slaughterfish eggs, clearly visible in the light of day. No one in their right mind bathes in a pool full of slaughterfish. Third, the tree trunk was covered with insects. I've only ever seen that many insects around vampire lairs or necromancy sites; it riles them up so they let themselves be seen, rather than hiding in the wood. And why would anyone who kidnapped a child keep them unguarded, and in a camp close enough to the road that passersby could hear her crying?"

Kodlak nodded, halfway through his slice of pie. Belatedly, Ysmir took a bite, finding it just hot enough, and savory with spices and gravy. She chewed slowly, realizing how hungry she was. She hadn't been able to stomach much these last few days, and eating quickly now would be a mistake. "I hope you trained some of your skill of observation into your children," he commented. "It will make them fine Companions."

Despite everything, Ysmir smiled. "Speaking of which, what has you so tense? Is it what you wish to talk to me about?"

He smiled sadly. "Yes, in part. Now, because Vilkas is prowling the hall outside, I will be brief. I no longer wish to be a werewolf."

The piece of pie she was bringing to her mouth slid from her fork onto her lap. "Why?" she asked, picking it up with her fingers and popping it into her mouth.

"When they die, werewolves go to the realm of Hircine. I wish to join my ancestors in Sovngarde," he said simply.

"Makes sense," she told him. "I don't know about doing little else but drinking my entire afterlife, but Sovngarde is…breathtaking."

"I had forgotten that you had been there," he stated, then held up his hand to forestall further comment. "No, do not tell me. I wish to experience it for myself."

"If you're asking if I know how to cure lycanthropy, Kodlak, I do not. I will look for you, though," she promised. "I'll be needing to return to Winterhold soon, so I'll see what the College has on the subject."

His eyes were grave. "This curse was lain upon us by the Witches of Glenmoril Coven, several Harbingers ago, as payment for a job."

"That's a start, anyway," she said, eyes following the shadow that passed, to and fro, under the door. "He's going to wear a hole in the floor."

"Vilkas's instincts are sharp, and his nose is sharper since he has decided, as I have, to try to forgo the changes," he said, and she looked at him in surprise. "He and Farkas will need help with this Ysmir. You are their friend, as well as their lover. I hope you will be supportive."

"Of course," she stammered, watching him rise to open the door.

"You might as well come in, boy. Tilma will be upset if you ruin the carpet with your pacing." The Harbinger looked over Vil's shoulder to the nearest hallway. "Both of you."

Vil looked her over worriedly, "What happened?"

"You'll have to be more specific," she informed him. Farkas smiled.

Vilkas scowled. "Why did you need to go see Danica?"

"I was a dunderhead and decided to take on a group of bandits with a sword, rather than magic," she informed him. "My ankle got crushed by an orc."

His expression darkened. "Ysmir, we've talked about this. You have got to stop being so reckless!"

"Well, I did use Dismay to make the orc run away, he just recovered from it faster than I was anticipating. If it weren't for that I think I would have been alright," she stated defensively.

"Ysmir," Kodlak interjected quietly, and she looked down. This wasn't going to be easy for anyone.

"What? What is it?" Vilkas asked, looking from one to the other.

"The Brotherhood came for Babette," she said. "Everyone is fine," she added hastily as all the blood drained from their faces, "They slipped some kind of poison to everyone that didn't affect vampires, so Serana had to trade Babette for the cure. Everyone is fine now," she repeated, seeing the same guilt wash over them as had her, with the added confliction of having been helping their comrades when it happened.

"We'll take you home tomorrow, Ysmir," Farkas finally said, after a long moment of the twins sharing one of those looks that made her think they could see what was going on in each other's head.

"I have to see Hrongar in the morning," she informed them, then smiled at their quizzical looks. "He wrote asking me to do something about the Brats of Dragonsreach."

Kodlak chuckled and Farkas whistled, low. "Oh, speaking of which," she dug in her bag. "I never looked at the other letter. I was so busy getting my ass handed to me on a platter that I forgot all about it." It was crumpled up under her Boots of Waterwalking. She hoped the interior was still intact, for the outside was so smudged she wouldn't even have known where it was from were it not for the wax seal holding it shut.

When she recognized the seal, she almost wished it had been.

_Dragonborn,_

_I wish to speak with you immediately._

_Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath_

_._

_._

_._

**So I completely forgot that it's Friday and I needed to post. It's been one of those days where you stomp around cussing a lot. I really wish it was Thursday, so I could just chill tomorrow rather than spend the day at work, but I actually like work, so I guess I shouldn't complain. **

**Anyway, Kodlak! One of my favorite characters. I just want to hug him. I always tear up if I see him in Sovrngarde.**

**Welcome new favorites and followers! Several of you this week; I'm honored. :)**

**Lenny the Wicked: A good ruler takes care of his subjects, but the being relatively nice thing IS new to him. He mentions it once or twice, but I can't quite remember where. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Wynni: I figured bard or scholar wasn't something that would immediately occur to a little boy in Skyrim who's surrounded by mages and warriors. I would be a bard, but Alesan's mostly just trying to think of ways not to get his arse kicked. **

**Roger509: Thanks! Yeah, Delphine needs to run face-first into a spiked door. I wanted to like her at first, I really did, but then she ditches you because you won't kill your friend. That kind of petty paranoia doesn't fly with me. I'm glad you seem to agree. **

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**Next Week: Story time with Darva and Miraak, where the newly-minted Daedra learns that his darling daughter almost died. **


	35. Chapter 35: A Tale of Two Dovahkiin

"…so Babette is gone now, and Aventus is all sad, but we're all feeling much better!" Darva said. "Bormah, you're hurting my ribs!"

He released her quickly, hands moving to her arms, then soothing the tumble of curls away from her face. "You're really alright?" he asked her anxiously. Divines; the Dark Brotherhood…

He'd almost lost her.

"We're fine," she assured him cheerfully, round face merry before it abruptly fell. "Aventus still won't talk to anyone, though."

"I'm not worried about him," Miraak told her honestly, trying to calm himself. It was over, so why was his heart still racing? His stomach still knotted with tension and fear? He throttled down the urge to go destroy something with difficulty, not wanting her to see that side of him.

Her face creased into a stubborn expression, "Well, I am. You would be too if you'd let me introduce you to anyone so you could be friends!" Drawing her head back out from between his hands, she crossed her arms and glared at the waterfall, muttering under her breath. "You'll never become a Papa at this rate."

"What?" he asked her, confused.

"Bormah, how do you know Momma?" she asked abruptly, turning back to him.

He gazed at her for a moment, thrown by the sudden question, still reeling from the knowledge that he'd almost lost the daughter he had just found. "I did something she didn't approve of. She came to tell me so, personally." Very personally. She'd brought a sword and everything.

Darva tilted her head to the side, curls falling over her shoulder to gleam gold in the afternoon light. "What did you do?"

Miraak considered his answer for a long moment, fiddling with his mask in his hands. "I was trapped somewhere," he finally said. "I made a bad friend a long, long time ago, and they trapped me in their home. I tricked some people into helping me escape. Ysmir took issue with that."

His daughter sighed in pure exasperation, sounding so exactly like him that he could only stare for a moment. "You could have just _asked_ her. She would have helped."

He laughed, much of his tension easing for the moment. "I didn't know her then. As it was, she did help me, although neither of us knew it at the time."

"Do you like her?" Darva asked, surprising him again. She was full of surprises today, most of them distinctly unpleasant, but her presence still seemed to calm him, despite her news. Sometimes he wondered why, but this time he had other things to ponder.

There was another pause as he thought through his answer. Finally, he decided on the truth. "Very much." That said nothing about what Ysmir thought of him, however; the fact that she had not tried to speak with him again urked him beyond belief. The six years she hadn't known he lived could possibly be forgiven, but now? There was really only one conclusion to be drawn from her continued avoidance, and it was one he didn't like.

Darva smiled like a cat that has gotten into cream, and he wondered just what she was thinking. "Good," was all she said, however. "I was going to call you yesterday," she told him suddenly.

"Why didn't you?" he asked, smiling a little as he realized she wanted him to ask.

"My brother Alesan was trying to Shout," she revealed. "So I'm trying to teach him how."

"Why?" he asked, thoroughly confused. The thought that Darva would want to teach someone else the very thing that made her special was a little mind-boggling to him. It was different for Dragonborn because they had the ability naturally, but teaching it to someone who was ordinary? Pointless, in his opinion.

"Because he wants to learn," she replied. "And because he won't use it for stupid reasons. The Greybeards were very stern about not using it as a toy."

Miraak snorted. "I bet they were." Useless as a lump of lead, they were. They spent all their time learning the Voice for the sake of learning the Voice. They didn't _do_ anything with it.

"Alesan won't use it for a toy," Darva continued, apparently not noticing his scorn. "He's hoping to have the first Word down before Momma gets home."

He felt his scales shift as his eyebrows rose. "She's not back yet?" Darva shook her head. Odahviing must have broken free of his influence. Miraak would have to be careful of that one; dragons didn't normally forget such an insult. Ah, well. There was little the _dovah_ could really do against him, anyway. The Dark Brotherhood, however…No. As much as he might like to ensure they were no longer a threat, they were the followers of Sithis—the last of his favorite followers, at that. Even the Daedra did not interfere with Sithis. Once Hermaeus Mora had tried, and there was still a large part of Apocrypha that had yet to recover. The Wrath of Sithis was not limited to those who broke the Tenents.

He'd be keeping a better watch on things, though.

"She should be back by dinner," Darva informed him. "Argis and Lucia are camped on the tower; they said they'd give a yell when they saw her. She's bringing the Papas back, too."

Miraak scowled. "And where were 'the Papas' when all this was going on?" he inquired acidly.

"They were with their other family," she said, then added when she noticed the incredulity on his face, "Companions. They're Companions, and somebody was going to hurt the rest of the Companions. I don't know what they'd have done, since the Papas and Auntie Aela are pretty strong, but…why do you look so mad?"

Miraak shook his head. He knew of the Companions, of course. They had been around for a few hundred years or so before he was even born. And for the last era the most skilled of them had been werewolves. Ysmir must know—he couldn't imagine her not knowing. If she did, however, then she was willingly letting a bunch of man-beasts around not only her adopted children, but his daughter! What was she thinking?

He stilled as another thought came to him. The children of Hircine were immune to diseases. The Argonian assassin had used a disease-based poison. They would have been infinitely useful when Darva—when the household—was attacked. That was assuming, of course, that these particular Companions were werewolves, he reminded himself. They might have found a cure, or stopped turning younger members since he'd last read anything about them. The few Darva had mentioned might not be part of the Circle. He would have to do some research tonight.

Darva was looking at him curiously. "Are you still scared about us getting poisoned?" she asked, and if all the blood drained from his face like he thought it did, she didn't mention. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's alright; we're all good now."

Miraak just reached over and pulled her against his side, closing his eyes a second. Two months. He'd only just met her two months ago. It was nothing compared to how long he'd lived, and yet his life was forever changed. Truly, this last decade had been one of complete upheaval, and it showed no signs of stopping—but only a few more decades, a century at most, and…

"You're much more hug-y than normal, Bormah," she mentioned, and he glanced down to see if this bothered her. It didn't appear to. She rather seemed to enjoy being cuddled up to him, arms around his waist as she gazed up at him trustingly. "Is that because we were sick? Even Lydia is being nicer than usual."

"That's normal," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. It had gotten unbearably tight at the thought of losing her now.

"Where's the book?" she asked after a while.

"I have to copy more of it down," he told her, releasing her.

She smiled, lighting up the little area as she did so. "That's alright. You can just tell me a story!"

He felt a grin tugging the corners of his mouth, despite everything. "What kind of story?"

"Has there ever been more than one Dragonborn, before?" she asked curiously. He could tell she had been wondering this for quite some time. "One of Momma's books says that some people think all the Dragonborns are the same person, born over and over again, but you and Momma are definitely not the same person, and neither am I."

The smile faded. Two months of searching for knowledge on the Prophesy of Alduin, of the Last Dragonborn. Ysmir should have been it. Everything pointed to it. So why was he so certain Darva was Dovahkiin? It was still remotely possible that she wasn't, he admitted to himself, but…Ysmir was right. He could sense…something. Could it be normal kinship, and not the draw of two of the dragon blood? He glanced at her. No. It wasn't his imagination. He could sense her the same way he could a dragon, if he searched objectively enough.

"There was…once," he said after a time. The story had been from a private volume, written for the Archives of the Akaviri Blades before Hermaeus Mora snatched it, along with several Nord legends surrounding various Dragonborn. He had dismissed when he first read it, thinking it only a romanticized version of the death of one with dragon blood. After meeting Ysmir, feeling the undeniable need to speak with her, to be with her…now he wasn't so sure.

He looked out at the waterfall, once more gathering his thoughts. They were in such disarray after her earlier tale. "The Dragonborn's name has been lost to time, but he was a Blade. A secret—their secret weapon. A son of the Septim Emperor of the time by a woman not his wife. He was a fearsome dragon slayer, the best of the Blades, and was learning to lead them one day."

"Who are the Blades?" Darva asked curiously, looking a bit shocked. Miraak reminded himself that this was a little girl whose mother had befriended Alduin's right hand, and been taught by his brother. It was more than possible she thought dragons reasonable, friendly creatures. He really needed to have a word to Ysmir about that one day.

"They are a group of people who kill dragons. Understand, Little Bee, that not all dragons are like the ones you know. Dragons like Hahnu, or…or Paarthurnax…they are the exception, not the rule. There are many, many bad dragons, and there were even more back then. It was this Dragonborn's destiny to take them down and make sure they would never rise again. Then he met one such as he had never seen. A frost dragon that had lived peacefully amongst the locals for generations. They thwarted his efforts to find the dragon, and when he finally did, he decided to inquire as to why rather than to simply kill the beast.

"The dragon's name was Briiahzidaaz," he glanced at her.

"Beauty, bitter, mercy," she supplied, and he grinned before resuming.

"She was the last female dragon alive."

Darva gave a little gasp, violet eyes going wide. "The last girl dragon? Anywhere?"

Miraak nodded. "There weren't that many to start with. Dragons never were intended to die—it is why they can arise completely alive again, rather than as undead. It was only after watching the love the _joor_ had for one another that some of them began to ask their Father why such lesser creatures had this joy and they did not. Akatosh replied to them that it was because the _joor_ needed such things to make their short lives bearable. The _dov_ had flight; the _joor _had love. For a while, it was enough, but after so long living, watching mortals love, the dragons began to yearn for it as well. When a dragon yearns, Little Bee, it has forever to grow within them. At last, it became so great, they ignored the council of Alduin their king and called upon, not Akatosh, but Kyne."

Miraak paused, enjoying the rapt look on his daughter's face. "They made a bargain. They would still never age. They would never sicken or grow frail, but now they could be killed as any other creature. In return for their invulnerability, Kyne gave them three of her daughters in dragon form, and from two of them and their mates came all the other female dragons, and the ability to create more of a race that had always been, since the beginnings of the world."

"Was Briiahzidaaz one of them?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her head on her knees as she watched him.

"Briiahzidaaz was several generations removed from those first female dragons. She had never had a mate, for she was born small, and weak. Her _thu'um_ was not a strong one, and her wings could not carry her far. But she could clear storms, and fly well enough to frighten off the bandits that attacked her human friends in the village below. And the Dragonborn spoke with her and decided that she had done no harm to anyone, and thus did not deserve to die. But the other Blades would never let her live."

"What did he do?" she asked.

Miraak shifted. "He was a master of Alteration magic, this Dragonborn, and probably more of a risk taker than the other Blades were comfortable with. He sought help from…a source that knows many things, in exchange for a promise. He was given an Elder Scroll with which to turn Briiahzidaaz into a form the Blades would not wish to kill, after which he was to take it deep into a Dwemer ruin and hide it therein. The Dragonborn cast the spell with the help of the Scroll, and Briiahzidaaz was changed…into a human."

"Was she pretty?" Darva asked innocently.

Her father laughed a bit. "I would think so, for the first thing the Dragonborn did was fall in love with her. Since she still had her dragon's soul she was also Dragonborn. From that day on, they could not be parted. The Blades accepted her because they hadn't any other choice if they wanted to keep their Dragonborn, but she was so soft-spoken and kind she eventually won them over." Falling silent, he wondered at the instant love between that ancient Dovahkiin and the dragon whose wings he had stolen. She should have hated him for taking them from her; why hadn't she? The old account he had found the tale in had spoken of a desperate bond between them, as if they couldn't help but be drawn to the other.

"Well?" Darva prodded, looking irritated he had stopped, lost in his own thoughts, for so long. "What happened?"

"When she was a dragon, Briiahzidaaz had one suitor, but he had been unable to defeat her family for the right to be with her when they were alive, and could not find her after that. He somehow discovered the change. Enraged, outraged, he fell upon her one day. Without her scales she was helpless, and the Dragonborn held her to him as she died. And on the moment of her death, he could not stop his soul from absorbing hers.

"Lost in grief, he hunted down dragons ruthlessly from that day forward," Miraak said dully, staring at the waterfall. "Until, one day, he found the one that had killed her. He wreaked such vengeance upon it even the Blades were shocked, and when the beast lay dying he stepped off the cliffface, followed down by the soul. He did not want to hold both the soul of his beloved and her killer inside him, and so he died before it could become a part of him." For a long moment he was quiet, just thinking, until a light hiccup made him turn in surprise.

Darva was crying, rubbing her eyes with little fists. "That's a _terrible_ story!" she wailed. "Why did you tell me it?"

"You asked if there had ever been more than one Dovahkiin," he reminded her gently. "That was the only time it has ever been, to my knowledge." Well, unless one counted the multiple family members of the Septims, when they had lived. He wasn't sure they were Dragonborn as he understood the term, however. He suspected having dragon blood was useless without also having a dragon's soul.

"That…that….that's just _awful!"_ she cried, launching herself to cling to him as she sobbed into his chest. Miraak shifted awkwardly, patting her back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. Truth be told, he had never really liked to see women cry, and was rather discomfited by her teary face.

"It happened a long time ago," he told her.

"That doesn't make it less sad!" she protested.

"No," he agreed with a sigh, "it doesn't."

The shadows had gotten long, and he glanced over the trees to the west to see it hovering above the mountains beyond them. It occurred to him with a thrill of accomplishment that he would normally have had to go by now, or at least have been beginning to turn transparent. He was neither, at the moment.

Darva's stomach rumbled loudly enough for them both to hear it, and her face turned pink for a moment before she giggled, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"You're hungry; there's no need to apologize for that," he assured her, gently pulling her arms from around him. "You should go back down before your family starts looking for you. Don't you want to be at the house when your mother gets home?"

She nodded eagerly, then looked up at him entreatingly. "You could come with me."

He shook his head, ignoring the little twinge of regret when her face fell. "I will see you some other time, Little Bee," he told her instead, beginning to fade out, for once of his own accord. "Oh, and Darva?" he added, "If you see that little vampire again, call me."

"Um…alright," she agreed, confused. Then he was gone.

Following the path down the hill for a bit, she thought about the story he had told her. She had never heard something so sad! Stopping next to the stream, she checked carefully for slaughterfish eggs before she splashed the cold water on her face. Runa had taught her that, to use the cold water to erase the signs of tears. Runa had learned it at the orphanage, where Darva gathered things were rather horrible, but Darva had only used the trick once or twice before, so as not to worry people. It would be hard to explain why she was crying when she wasn't bruised or scraped or anything.

Descending the hill was a bit like walking into evening, Darva decided as she dipped below the shadowed line where the trees prevented the sun from reaching down. She shivered at the sudden drop in temperature, the cold drops still clinging to her bangs and eyelashes instantly feeling as if they had turned to ice. She picked up her pace, scampering past Pinewatch and through the breaks in the rock to see Lakeview, skidding to a halt.

She wasn't the first one there. Just outside the door to the manor two guards flanked a tall, gold-skinned person that definitely wasn't Momma.

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**Some story-seption going on this chapter. This is where I really start messing with the dragonlore, but I hope none of you mind that much.**

**We reached 100,000 words and 10,000 views in the same week! Yay us! Thank you everyone who helped this story get this far. I adore you all!**

**Wynni: The siege comes later-mostly because they're trying to figure out where so many of their little companies disappeared to. Sadly, Miraak is not going on a bloody rampage through the Sanctuary, because Sithis is scary even to Daedra (I'm not making that up, I discovered it on the wiki somewhere.) No telling what would happen if an assassin shows his/her face around his little girl, though. And I agree on the Balgruuf and Delphine thing. That temple would have nicely fit all my orphans.**

**Wicked Lullaby: Sometimes people forget that mages are squishy, even if they're dragonborn. I get killed in-game too often to do that. We see more of Babette later, but for now we have some other drama to deal with.**

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**Next Week: Thane Ysmir pays an irritated visit to one of her many jarls. Also, shenanigans. My goodness I suck at summaries. **


	36. Chapter 36: Answering a Summons

The moment Ysmir had seen the tall, golden form in expensive robes waiting outside her door, politely interrogating her daughter, she had frozen where she stood. Farkas had actually walked right into her.

"What is it?" he had asked, then stilled, eyes narrowing at the visitor.

Then the woman had turned, and Ysmir had felt the tension drain from her so abruptly she sagged. Nenya. Not a Thalmor, just that brat Siddgeir's steward. "It's nothing," she replied, "Just an annoyance."

Nenya noticed her before long, likely by the clamor of the children. She straightened with a little smile as Darva's face broke into a welcoming grin, and she shouted "Momma!" as she launched herself down the hill to where her mother waited. Ysmir caught her up in a tight hug, wishing the Falkreath steward wasn't there to witness the relieved tears that slid down her cheeks as she gazed deeply at each of her children, hugging them tightly and touching their faces, reassuring herself that they were, indeed, all right.

The Altmer was politely looking away, even if her guards were staring from beneath their helmets. Assured for the moment that her family was fine (although there was no sign of Aventus), Ysmir reached the door and cleared her throat pointedly. "Nenya," she said politely.

"Thane," Nenya replied with a nod. "I hope I've not come at a bad time. Your little one said there was illness in the family recently?"

Ysmir shot a quick glance at Darva, who put her hands behind her back and gazed at the ground, drawing what looked suspiciously like Dovahzul on the ground with the toe of her shoe. "There was. It has since passed, but I was away at the time and hurried back as soon as I received the news. Is there something I can help you with?"

Nenya grimaced, "Jarl Siddgeir was quite distressed when you did not reply immediately to his summons."

"I only just returned. I received his letter somewhere north of Windhelm," she informed the steward, annoyed and not bothering to hide it.

"I am aware," the Altmer woman said, looking profoundly embarrassed. "Nevertheless, the Jarl has sent me to collect you and bring you back."

If Ysmir could hear the twins growling and grinding their teeth behind them, Nenya certainly could. "My children have been gravely ill while I was away, and I have had a long, hectic journey where I was beside myself with worry. Unless a dragon is at this moment attacking Falkreath, I am going to remain here long enough to see to my family, and pray to the Divines in thanks that they all survived. I'm sure his lordship will understand."

"Of course," Nenya replied, eyes flickering to a guard who had the audacity to snicker. "Just to be certain he does, I'm sure he'll be gratified to hear you left the _morning_ you arrived home."

Ysmir relaxed. "Of course. That very morning."

Darva followed her into the house before whispering, "She knows it's dinner time, right?"

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Falkreath was one of Ysmir's least favorite holds, beaten only by Winterhold, and possibly Markarth. It wasn't really that bad a place, save for the rather heavy, morbid atmosphere that seemed to linger like a mist, and, of course, the Jarl.

Ysmir had first met Siddgeir when she was sixteen years old, fresh out of the College, and the way he had looked at her had made her skin crawl. True, several men had given her that look before, evaluating everything about her that could be of potential use, up to and including her body, but something about Siddgeir had made her feel as if he had dragged hands all over her, covering her in sooty, oily filth. As a Jarl he was a joke, and despite his better-than-average looks, she could never help but be reminded strongly of a rabid skeever in his presence. He was like a cruel, spoilt child that cared only for his own pleasures and comfort.

The fact that she all-too-often had to clean up his messes only reinforced that impression. But keeping him happy made life more easy than not, and kept the taxes from mysteriously rising along the lake shore, which helped more than just her.

It was with these thoughts in mind that she entered Falkreath with Nenya and her guards. She had very firmly told the twins and her housecarls to remain at home, pointing out that Inigo was still somewhere in Falkreath with Sofie and Runa. She would hardly be walking home alone, and the guards had gotten Nenya there safely, so they should be able to get back all right.

She suspected at least one of the twins had trailed them almost up to the city, anyway.

Rather than heading straight to the Jarl's longhouse, she made her way to the Dead Man's Drink. She hoped her daughters had been able to sleep there, but in her experience the inn was a relatively quiet one. The door creaked as she pushed it open, blinking for a moment for her eyes to adjust.

"Mother!"

Something hurtled into her, sending her staggering back a few steps into the sunlight. It was Runa, looking far less composed than usual, followed quickly by Sofie, who just looked happy to see her. Taking a moment to hold them tightly, right there in the door, Ysmir sent another quick prayer to the Nine in thanks that they were still with her.

"As glad as I am to see you, Ysmir," came Inigo's familiar voice, "you are blocking the doorway."

Ysmir laughed, ushering the girls inside. "Mother has to change for a meeting with the Jarl," she informed them when they asked what she was doing there.

"Can we go?" Runa asked, eyes alight with interest.

"No," Ysmir said sharply, then softened her tone at Runa's expression. "No. Not with Siddgeir. I'll introduce you to Balgruuf someday, or perhaps Elisif, but not with Siddgeir."

Inigo led her to the pair of rooms they had rented, and she closed herself in Inigo's to change, since the second bed squeezed into her daughters' took up too much space. Getting a pot of warm water and a cloth from the innkeeper, she hurriedly wiped the grime of travel from her skin, shivering a bit at the bite in the air before she changed into formal attire. Inigo knocked when she was brushing out her hair. "Come in," she called.

He slithered in so adroitly no one outside could have seen if she were still indecent. "I brought the paper and quill you requested."

"Would you mind making a letter for me? I don't want to get ink on my hands," she said, sitting down on the bed to pull on her boots.

"Who to?" he asked, turning the chair sideways at the table so he could sit without hurting his tail. He looked at the quill, wrinkled his nose a bit, and began to sharpen it with a claw.

"Illia, at Darklight Tower," she said, and Inigo paused, turning to give her a questioning look.

"This one wonders what you need Illia for," he said bluntly. Illia made the Khajiit distinctly nervous, as she had killed many of her former comrades while trying to prevent her mother from becoming a Hagraven after a fit of conscience. She was still a witch, and knew many dark magics, but was a genuinely good person, which made her perfect for Ysmir's plans.

"I've been asked to take a hand in correcting the behavior of Balgruuf's children," she revealed, and he sucked in a breath.

"So, what? You're going to feed them to a Hagraven?" he asked, only half joking.

"Even better," she replied, braiding the front of her hair so that it stayed out of her eyes. She'd found this had the added benefit of reassuring Nords in particular, since most of them went around sporting similar styles. "I'm going to make them _think_ they're being fed to a Hagraven."

His ears flattened. "What?"

"Do you remember when you were little, and people would tell you tales about how, if you weren't good, some evil witch was going to steal you away and eat you?" Not a tactic she used on her own children. Divines knew they had been through enough without silly fears on top of it.

"Yes, but—ah, I see. So Illia is going to be your witch," he said, ears pricking back up, just a little.

"No, she's too pretty. But she knows how to handle Hagravens, which makes her ideal for keeping a witch in line," Ysmir corrected, smiling a little. "I'm still owed a favor by Melka."

Her friend actually hissed, ears folding flat along his skull. "The Hagraven that had you kill her sister?"

"She promised me a staff in return for clearing her tower of her sister and the Foresworn, but Petra broke the staff before I could claim it. So, Melka owes me a favor and I'm going to cash in. She keeps the children, scared but safe; Illia keeps her in line within, and I show up with the twins after they say their behavior has improved to 'save' them."

Slowly, his ears started to stand back up, the shining rings in them clinking softly. "What's to stop them from backsliding?"

Ysmir laughed, "Why, the witch will get away, of course! But she can only kidnap bad little boys and girls, so if they're good, they'll be safe!"

Inigo shook his head, but he was smiling. "I thought you liked children!"

"I do. But every time one of them opens their mouth I want to stick a skeever tail in it!" she exclaimed, rising and holding out her arms. "How do I look?"

"Like you work for the East Empire Company, and you want to drive a bargain," he replied.

"Good," she nodded, heading out of the room. "Tell Illia to meet me at Blind Cliff Cave in the Reach in a week or so." With that, she headed out, waving to her daughters as she went, then jogging lightly to the longhouse. No point in putting this off any longer. Stopping at the door, she took a deep breath and slowly pushed it open, letting her eyes adjust slowly to the dust-strewn gloom within.

"Ah, Ysmir," Siddgeir purred lazily, sitting up slightly. As she approached, Ysmir wondered caustically how he wasn't bored out of his mind, slouching there all day. She'd never seen sign of book or game, and Nenya took care of the business of the hold. What was it he _did_ all day?

"My Jarl," she said, nodding.

Siddgeir smiled at her, eyes hooded. Ysmir felt a stirring of alarm. For once, he didn't remind her of a skeever. No, he was all sabercat right now; lazy and glutted and contemplating whether it wanted to strike. "I was rather distressed when you didn't answer my summons, but Nenya tells me you have been out traveling."

"Yes," she said simply, leaving it at that.

"You know," he said pensively, gazing at her and stroking the amulet he wore, reminding her uncomfortably of Babette, "I've known you for ten years now, and you've barely aged once you got past twenty. Family trait?"

"Yes," she said, gritting her teeth. The last thing she wanted to get into was her elven heritage.

"How lucky for you," he replied. "You're young, beautiful, likely to stay that way, and everyone in my hold loves you." He stroked the amulet again.

Unable to formulate a proper response to that, Ysmir finally settled on, "Thank you, my Jarl," all the while fighting a sinking, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. This was Siddgeir, after all. He probably just had a more disgusting task than usual for her, for him to flatter her this much.

He glanced to the side, pursing his lips in thought, fingers steepled together before him. "It has come to my attention that I am not very well liked in my own hold. I seem to be having a bit of a public relations problem."

"That's unfortunate," she said after another long, drawn out moment where she was apparently expected to comment.

"I have, I think, the solution," he said, turning back to her.

"Well, that's…good," she said, wondering why he was beating about the bush like this.

Siddgeir stood all at once, making her take a step back. She had actually never seen him standing before. He was taller than she expected. Reaching out, he grabbed her hand, pulled the amulet from over his head, and placed it over her palm. She looked down, feeling all the blood drain from her face.

An Amulet of Mara.

"Ysmir Dragonborn, will you marry me?"

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**Hello everybody! As always, I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. Had some of you going thinking the Thalmor had shown up end of last week, huh? *Mine is an evil laugh.***

**Welcome new followers and favorites! Crazy week for me. I'm being moved up to working 40+ hours a week (as opposed to the 16 I have been working) so I'm not going to have that much time to write. I should have enough written ahead that it won't make that much difference, but it will mean I won't have been able to proofread quite as much as before, so if you see a mistake, let me know in a PM, please.**

**Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed! More reviews on this chapter than any before!**

**Nargus: My headcannon on wards is that the elves still use them, but the humans sort of just forgot to after moving to the shield-type ward. It has, after all, been a few generations. And as of this moment, Darva is not planned on ever becoming a dragon, though she would probably jump at the chance. With any luck, Uncle Sheo won't find this out.**

**Roger509: Yeah...There were enough holes in the lore that I sort of took it upon myself to make some out of whole cloth. Honestly, though, does it make sense to you that all the dragons are male? Even if the lore does say they "always were," you'd think they would come off a bit more gender neutral, or something.**

**Wynni: That tale is mine, although I have noticed the tendency toward tragedies in Tamriel. Sheo won't be showing his face until near the very end, because he's a pistol like that. Rest assured however, that if he thought Miraak was doing too bad a job fathering, he would show up. Probably. If he wasn't distracted by a butterfly that desperately wanted to be a mammoth, or something.**

**Wicked Lullaby: ...I should probably choose either Thursday or Friday to update instead of switching then, huh? :P Thanks! I send you internet hugs for that comment. ^_^ Miraak as a Papa would be interesting, since he really only knows Darva, and Blaise would try to steal his mask at least once, and Runa would desperately want to know how that stretchy sword worked, and Lucia would want to know all about the Dwemer, and Sofie would want to know why all the other adults keep glaring at him. I can't really picture him lending a hand with the farmwork, though. As far as the other thing...I think most of Tamriel doesn't really know what they're in for. **

**Msmusicful: These Miraak/Darva chapters are some of my favorite to write. I would probably fill the story with them if plot allowed. **

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**Next Week: Siddgeir is even more of a skeever than usual and Alesan has a surprise for the family. Also, Runa has an urgent conversation with her mother. **


	37. Chapter 37: Parting Ways

Inigo jumped as she banged back into his inn room, face ashen. "Get your things. We're leaving, now."

"Alright," he replied, frowning but not asking any questions. Ysmir was just as glad, for she was in no state to answer them. She moved to Sofie and Runa's room and began packing their things for them, shushing them when they asked what was wrong.

At the moment, everything was wrong. Her mind reeled, going over and over what had just happened, like a Dwemer Sphere Guardian stuck on a track.

"What? You…" Ysmir looked up from the Amulet, wanting nothing more than to throw it at him.

"Marry me," he said, clutching tightly to her hand. His were uncomfortably warm, and a little clammy. His eyes were unnaturally white and shiny, as if he had recently drank skooma, and he was so close she could see the Crest of Falkreath carved into the emerald of his circlet. "You're well-liked, respected; you're a hero. My people love you much more than they dislike me."

She scowled, offended and furious, _"That's_ your solution? Marry the Dragonborn and expect people to suddenly revise their opinion of you?"

He shrugged, "I have to marry sometime. And if the Dragonborn herself thinks I'm worthy enough to wed, it will certainly stop the grumbles for a while."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Siddgeir, but I have no intention of getting married, ever. Good luck with your popularity problems," she said, ripping her hand from his and turning to go.

"I saw your cat servant in town earlier," he said casually, bringing her to a grinding halt as she turned to look at him, wondering where he was going with this. "Those two girls with him are yours, am I correct? Part of your little orphan collection?"

She gritted her teeth, turning to glare at him as he returned calmly to his seat. If the whiteness of his knuckles was any indication, his calm was as fake as hers. "What about it?"

"The older one—Runa, I believe?—just turned thirteen, did she not?" he asked, showing all his teeth. "A very pretty thirteen, at that. Did you know, while sixteen may be the age of consent in Skyrim, children can be engaged from thirteen?" he lounged back in his chair, examining the Amulet she had left in his hand when she pulled away. "There are some very old laws in Skyrim, you know, ones that go so far back they're hard to change just on that basis alone, no matter how the world has changed. You know which one I find interesting? A Jarl, during wartime, can choose any bride he likes, no matter what her family's allegiances may be. I can't force the Dragonborn to marry me, but her pretty, young, _Nord _daughter? Just as good, in my opinion." He paused, "Maybe better. There are a few people who look down on a woman who has had more than her husband in her bed."

"Are you blackmailing me?" she asked incredulously.

He waved his hand as if batting away an annoying insect, "Nothing so crass. I'm just letting you know that I have other options, should you choose to reject my offer. I'll give you some time to consider. Come see me in…oh, a day or so."

Ysmir turned and moved quickly out of the longhouse, listing all the reasons in her head that killing a Jarl is a bad idea, even for her. Aedra and Daedra, but this kingdom had enough anarchy without her blatantly butchering a jarl. Even if he was trying to blackmail her. Even if he proposed for political gain.

Even if he couldn't hide the fact that—though her refusal insulted him—he would much rather be married to her daughter. She realized with a growing sense of nausea that she hadn't seen that interested look in his eyes for a long time. Not since she was about seventeen—a very slight seventeen, at that. A very diffident, meek seventeen, unsure of herself around those in power and still frightened silly the Thalmor were going to find out who she was, and terrified that somehow, every noble of the nine races would know instantly that she had run from them. Which had he reacted to; the youth, the meekness, or the fear?

Or, was it possible she was just reading too much into this, as she was back then? Could she really take the chance that she was?

She barely remembered getting home, only telling everyone to pack their things, they were all going on a trip. She just hadn't worked out where, yet.

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"That…that _bastard!"_ Lydia growled in an uncharacteristic burst of temper, banging her fist on the table. "Where did he even find such a law?"

"If there is one," Farkas growled. Vilkas had removed himself from the table without a word when she told them what had happened, though not what she suspected. They were going to be appalled enough already; she didn't trust them not to go Jarl-hunting if she so much as hinted of her secret fear.

"There is," Serana replied glumly, her eyes burning like embers in her pale face. "But it was created to force a truce with recalcitrant clans through marriage binds—_not_ so that he could take advantage of girls barely out of childhood!" The vampire glared at the fire as if she could summon Siddgeir amongst the flames. It was the only light in the room at the moment, throwing flickering, uncertain shadows around the dining hall. The bottles of mead and ale made long shadows across the table, complimented by Ysmir's favored brandy and Lydia's Alto Wine.

"As much as I hate running," Argis put in, rolling the cork from his bottle between two fingers, "I think it's the only option at this point, temporarily anyway. If he's really being pressured to marry, then he can't just wait around until you turn up again. You have other homes, Ysmir. Take the children and go to them until news of a wedding reaches you."

"It will also make it harder for the Dark Brotherhood to find you, should they decide to try again," Lydia said, calming down. Ysmir noticed her glass was much emptier than it had been.

"In that case," Serana said, propping her chin on her hands, "you should go to all of them. Split up, so that even if he hears that the Dragonborn's family has moved in somewhere and sends someone to take Runa or you back to Falkreath kicking and screaming, they may not find you."

Ysmir sighed, "Not the houses—they're too vulnerable." She turned to Farkas, "Think the Companions could take Runa and Aventus for a while?"

"No problem," he said, grinning hugely. "Should give the new recruits some stiff competition."

"Fort Dawnguard should be safe enough," Lydia put in. "I can take two of them there."

"Perhaps we should decide who goes where in the morning," Argis suggested, watching Ysmir yawn hugely. "We'll sleep on it, and let the children decide who they want to be paired up with."

Ysmir blinked, then nodded. "Good idea. They'll be a lot less trouble if they feel they have at least some choice in the matter."

That decided, the group broke up, heading for their respective beds. Farkas steered Ysmir right back around when she wanted to go upstairs, leading her resolutely toward the bathing room, saying she "looked like death," and needed a good soak and a back rub.

Serana watched that with a little smile, then frowned. No one had told Vilkas what they had decided, but everyone was so discombobulated she wasn't really surprised. Rising, she headed out into the night, pausing to gaze up at the blue-green threads of light that danced across the stars. Her gaze moved to the trees and she shivered, imagining the Dark Brotherhood Argonian watching her from the undergrowth. She wondered briefly how many decades would pass before _that _image left her.

Vilkas wasn't hard to find. He was muttering to himself and pacing, not bothering to stay quiet. She didn't think to make noise, and he whirled, pinning her against a tree with his fist pulled back. There was a pause between when he recognized her and when he released her, though, that she wasn't sure what to make of. Divines, but werewolves were so _warm!_ she thought a bit jealously as he pulled back, the cold air rushing in to where he had been.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that," he finally said after gazing at her for a few moments.

"We've decided to split up," she told him without preamble. "I imagine we'll be two children with two adults. We'll ask the children who they want to be paired with in the morning."

"'We'?" he snorted rudely, returning to his pacing. "Where do you fit in all this? The little bloodsucker is gone; shouldn't you be on your way back to your castle?"

Serana put her hands on her hips. _"Excuse_ me, wolf man, but I have just as much right to be here as you. Ysmir is my friend, and I promised to help her. Just because Babette is gone does not mean I don't care what happens to anyone else. I care about those children, and Ysmir, and Lydia, and everyone else here. Even you, you overgrown, crotchety mutt!"

Vilkas ground to a halt in his pacing, jaw dropping just a little as he examined her pale, scowling face by the light of Masser. She took a deep breath, hands falling to her sides. "Now, I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same. Sounds like we'll have a big day tomorrow, and the last thing we need is you being grouchy to everyone. Good night." With that, she pivoted on her heel and strode back toward the manor.

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"I don't like carriages," Darva complained, rubbing her bottom. A splinter had lodged its way in there within the first hour of the ride, and they'd had to pull over and hide behind some bushes while Ysmir pulled it out. Blaise had laughed until Runa had punched him. Runa was more uptight than just about anybody, which was odd, to say the least. She had been sitting next to the door last night with her ear pressed to the crack, so Darva thought it had something to do with that.

Ysmir looked around, then glanced at the twins, who nodded. Finally, she dismounted Jughead, the other adults following suit, and led the whole group, wagon and all, over to a clearing. "All right, everyone, here's what's going on," she said, instantly getting everyone's attention. "We needed to get away from the house for a while, for various reasons, mostly boiling down to this; it's not safe there right now. So for a few weeks we're going to go our separate ways. Do any of you have a preference which of us you go with?"

The children looked at each other. Even Aventus looked surprised. Runa only looked glum.

"All right, then," Ysmir sighed when no one really said anything. "The Papas will be going back to Jorrvaskr. If you want to go with them, line up. Lydia will be going to Fort Dawnguard. If you want to go with her, line up over there. Darva, Argis is going to be taking you up to High Hrothgar."

"I don't want to go!" she cried, dismayed at being singled out. "High Rothgi is boring! It's cold and lonely and there won't be anyone to play with!"

"I'll go," Alesan volunteered before Ysmir could snap at her youngest. She looked up in surprise, wondering where this had come from. "I don't mind the cold, or hard work."

But Ysmir was shaking her head. "They're very particular about who they allow in their monastery, Alesan. They'll probably send Argis back down after he's dropped off Darva."

The Redguard boy took a deep breath and walked away from the group. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, thinking desperately about what it had felt like to be forced from the boat with his sick father, left in Dawnstar to rot; about the feeling of a large rock budging before him as the surprised Papas praised his strength. About how he was determined that he not spend the rest of his days being pushed around, obligated to fight because no one would leave each other alone.

_"Fus!"_ he cried, and to everyone's astonishment (not in the least Alesan's), a wave of force shook the trees before him. It was a small, weak _thu'um_—undeveloped—but a _thu'um_ nonetheless. Ysmir felt as if her jaw would unhinge, it was dangling so low. Darva squealed and capered with glee, clapping her hands. He turned back to them with a proud smile, and she wondered if this was the first time he'd actually managed it. "Darva showed me. I've been working on it for weeks." His voice sounded like he had been screaming in cold air for an hour.

Everyone turned to look at Darva, who flushed. "I'm sure he would have gotten it eventually on his own," she demurred.

Blaise pouted. "Why didn't you show anyone else? Why didn't you show me?"

"Because you locked my doll in the house safe, that's why," she informed him primly.

That brought a smile back to their mother's face, and she pulled Alesan into a hug, handing him her waterskin. "That's amazing, Alesan. I wish you had told me that you wanted to learn."

He shrugged. "You've been busy. I didn't want to waste your time unless I knew I could do it," he muttered, looking pleased. "Send me to High Hrothgar. I'll study with the Greybeards and keep an eye on Darva for you."

Bending, she kissed his fuzzy black curls. "Thank you, Alesan. They'll be lucky to have you as their student."

"I hope they feel that way," he muttered, heading back to the group.

Blaise punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked gruffly, looking a little hurt.

"Do you know how much sitting around I had to do, thinking about pushing?" Alesan asked with a roll of his eyes. "You can barely sit still long enough to eat dinner."

It was Runa's turn to rise, this time striding to her mother and grabbing her wrist as she went by, leading her down the road a ways to get some privacy. "I want to go with you," she declared, eyes shining furiously. "I know why we're leaving—it's because Jarl Siddgeir wants to marry me to get back at you for rejecting him."

Ysmir frowned down at the girl, "Were you eavesdropping?" she asked sternly, then sighed when Runa's expression didn't waver in the least. "Our having to leave is not your fault, Runa."

"I know it isn't, but I can't help but feel responsible," she admitted, running her fingers through her long blond hair. Ysmir suppressed a twang at how grown up she looked, and how stressed. Wait…were those _studs_ in the girl's ears? The thought was lost at her next words. "Just like Aventus feels responsible for introducing us all to Babette. We want to help, not be shipped off to hide like children. At Jorrvaskr they would help us train, but the Papas will still shelter us. We won't be allowed to _go_ anywhere or do anything useful. Please, Mother, let us help. Give us something to do!" she begged, frustration plain.

Ysmir glanced back at Aventus, who was staring glumly at the ground. In all the years she'd known him she had never seen him cry, but he had been perilously close to it when she went to get him out of bed. He'd been guilty and wretched, holding her tightly and asking quietly for her forgiveness in a tone so devoid of hope she knew he hadn't expected it, because he didn't think he really deserved it after letting an assassin into their lives.

The Dragonborn sighed hugely before a thought came to her. "I won't be in Whiterun long," she said, getting her eldest's attention instantly. "I need to go speak to some friends, then when I return it will be to kidnap the Jarl's brats to take to…disciplinary camp."

Runa gave her a puzzled look, "All right…what does this have to do with Aventus and me?"

Quickly, Ysmir outlined her plan to the girl, who clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle laughter by the end of it. "I see!" she exclaimed, delighted. "So you want Aventus and me to be other bad children? Oh, I know! I ran away from home to join the Companions, so if they ever see me again, it would make sense. Aventus…well, he summoned the Dark Brotherhood—don't look at me like that, we all know it—so it's no surprise that he's there."

"I…don't want them knowing just what Aventus did," Ysmir said slowly, processing this. "We'll let him come up with his own transgressions."

"Perfect," Runa enthused, catching Ysmir in an impulsive hug. The Dragonborn noted with wistful pride that the girl was wearing her dagger hidden under her cloak. If Siddgeir was looking for a meek little maiden here, he was in for a sharp surprise. "I'll tell Aventus. Once we've gotten away from the others, of course."

"Of course," Ysmir agreed with a bittersweet smile, following her daughter to where the others waited.

Lydia looked up. "It's all decided. Sofie will go to Jorrvaskr with the twins. Blaise and Lucia have decided to go with me to Fort Dawnguard, and Inigo and Ma'Rakha are going to travel with the caravans for a bit, if they'll have them."

"Of course they'll have us," Inigo scoffed, "They're always willing to have a handsome swordsman to help out, and Ma'Rakha can learn more of Elsweyr."

Blaise was elbowing Alesan. "Sure you want to go to the Greybeards? There's armored trolls!"

"You're going to have to help me take care of Shags, Blaise!" Lucia reminded him, petting the cow trailing behind the cart by a lead rope. The bovine lowed softly and lipped at the girl's hair, leaving a large wet patch.

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed absently, attention still on Alesan. "Armored _trolls!"_

"Alright," Ysmir said, swallowing a lump in her throat as she looked them all over. "Now, we'll part…part ways here. If you have anything to say, say it now, because you won't be seeing each other for a few weeks."

"My Thane," Argis whispered to her as the children looked at one another, stricken. "What do you want me to do if the Greybeards do not wish for me to stay?"

She took a deep breath, holding her eyes shut tight. They seemed to be a bit more watery than normal. "Go to Jorrvaskr. If you're bored, make yourself available to Kodlak. Oh, and Argis? If they invite you to join, by no means are you to decline on my account."

"I'm your housecarl," he said stubbornly.

"You're my friend," she countered seriously. "I don't hold my friends back. If you don't want to join because you'd rather not be a Companion, that's fine. Just don't let your appointment as my housecarl stop you from doing something you really want to do." Holding his gaze a moment longer, she finally gave him a wan grin, "Besides, since when have I had an issue calling on my friends for help anyway?"

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**Hi, guys and girls! Sorry about the lateness of this post: Thursday I was making pies then trekking all over the state (at least it felt like that), and then I had my first Black Friday weekend working retail. I pretty much got up at six, came home at ten thirty and fell on my face. Were it not for leftovers, I probably wouldn't have eaten, so thank God for those.**

**That said, I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving and/or a wonderful weekend! Welcome new favorites and followers, and as always, thank you those who took the time to review! I get happy every time I see the number has changed. **

**Wynni: Unfortunately, no. If she had had the Wabbajack it might have happened, because changing a jarl into a mudcrab is far different than murdering them, but Sheo had already taken it back. I'll have to check out your story when I have a little more time. ^_^**

**Nargus: Of a sort, though you can always expect some kind of action ahead in a Skyrim story, if only because of the number of suicidal bandits on the road, and I don't just mean Old Orcs. This definitely isn't the last we've heard of Siddgeir, but Ysmir's not willing to take too many risks when it comes to the safety of her children, so they will be safe and sound before she makes any kind of decision-that is if one of her allies doesn't decide to make it for her. Muah ha ha ha!**

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**Next Week: The Brats of Whiterun awaken somewhere other than their nice, warm beds, and Aventus and Runa do some acting.**


	38. Chapter 38: The Brats of Whiterun

**Just in case any of you just check in at the end of every week, I did post a chapter on...Monday, was it? Meh. Anyway, make sure you read 37 before reading 38, or it will make very little sense!**

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"Ysmir!" Balgruuf greeted her warmly, rising from his throne to welcome her properly. Hrongar looked both relieved and guilty at her appearance, and she wondered just what unreasonable demand one of the children had made this time. "What brings you to Whiterun? Not planning on trapping another dragon, I hope?"

She laughed politely at his jest. "No. Actually, I want to kidnap your children."

Balgruuf stared at her a moment, trying to work out if she were joking. He'd had a hard time telling, since trapping Odahviing. "You're serious," he finally realized. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Because I think a little hard work around people who couldn't care less about their bloodline would do them good." At his continued confliction, she sighed, "Jarl Balgruuf, on the way in here your youngest told me that I did a good job keeping your boots clean with my tongue."

Balgruuf looked horrified, glancing around. The guards, who had leaned their heads together in a conspiratorial manner as soon as she began talking, straightened abruptly. "Why don't we take this to the Porch?" he finally said, heading for the stairs. Hrongar bowed ironically, gesturing her to follow. Vilkas grimaced and followed her, wishing he wasn't party to this. As far as he was concerned, this whole plan was so hair-brained it might as well have been made by Sheogorath.

Frothar was practicing against a dummy when they walked out onto the Porch, and Vilkas looked him over appraisingly. He was built more like his uncle Hrongar than Balgruuf's wiry frame, and he wasn't half bad with a sword. Not as good as Aventus or Runa, but certainly better than Blaise or Alesan. He was nearing fifteen now, Vilkas thought, and by the size of his wrists and knees, he was bound to have a growth spurt within the next year.

The prospective future Jarl noticed his appraisal. "You want to fight, or something?" he asked belligerently, holding up his practice sword.

"I only fight with steel, boy," Vilkas replied equably, moving on. Ahead, Ysmir was having a heated discussion with the Jarl, and by the looks of things she wasn't getting very far, even with Hrongar assisting. Pleased someone else thought this idea preposterous, Vilkas was about to join them when a short, slender form filled with righteous indignation stomped past him and right up to Balgruuf.

"Where is my new dress?" she demanded.

Balgruuf looked harried and irritated. "The shipment it was in was captured in the Rift. I ordered you a new one, but it won't be here for a few weeks."

"A few weeks?" she repeated incredulously. "A few _weeks?"_ she shrieked, stamping. "But I want it now!"

"We can talk about this later, Dagny," he said tiredly.

"I want my dress," she insisted.

"There is nothing I can do to hurry it," he told her, the forbidding look in his eyes finally reaching the girl, who huffed and sulked off. Balgruuf watched her for a long moment before turning to Ysmir. "They'll be safe?"

"Two of my own will be there," she assured him.

He sighed. "Do what you must, Dragonborn."

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She was humming as she descended the stairs into the Wind District. Ysmir was many things, but a bard was not one of them, and he wished she would stop. "I can't believe you're going through with this," he told her seriously.

"Why not? It takes care of Hrongar's problem—which he did ask for help with, by the way—gets Runa somewhere Siddgeir can't find her and gets Aventus somewhere Babette can't find _him_. Illia gets out of Darklight Tower and Melka gets a sack of bandit eyes for her collection. Everyone wins."

"I can't say I'm quite comfortable handing over a group of children to a Hagraven, no matter how trustworthy," he informed her. "You seem positively gleeful about it."

"You can't tell me you haven't wanted to take those brats down a peg since you've met them," she countered, just as another child rounded the corner between War Maiden's and the empty Breezehome, bumping right into her.

"Hey, watch it!" Braith demanded, scowling up at the Dragonborn before running around her.

Ysmir watched her run off for a long moment. "You know what? I'm going to go talk to Saffir."

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That night, the Dragonsreach guards gleefully carried three drugged children down to the Whiterun stables, followed soon after by Amren with Braith, looking pained. "Are you sure about this, Ysmir?" he asked her quietly, shifting his daughter in his arms. Curled up there, her head resting on his shoulder and her face relaxed in sleep, she hardly looked like the rude little bully she was during the day.

"Do you like the way she's been acting?" the Dragonborn asked him archly, and he winced, shaking his head as he placed his daughter carefully in the padded bed of the carriage.

"Dragonborn!" a voice called, and she turned to see Olfrid Battle-Born striding down the hill with his grandson Lars draped over one shoulder like a sack of grain. "Amren told me you were taking it upon yourself to correct the behavior of our Jarl's spoilt rotten offspring," he said, and she glared at the Redguard briefly before nodding an affirmative. "Well, I want you to take Lars with you. I imagine there will be work and hardship involved? Good. Toughen the little milk-drinker up. Make a true Nord out of him." He deposited Lars's sleeping form non-too-gently next to the others. "Don't know what you used to keep the others out, but I gave him the strongest ale I had. Hope it will do."

Ysmir winced for Lars's sake. "What's wrong with him?" she asked. Personally, she had never had a problem with the boy, who was perhaps a year or so younger than Aventus; about the same age as Sofie. He had always seemed rather soft-spoken and polite.

She realized that might just be the problem when he scowled. "He's a milk-drinker," he repeated. "He doesn't want to fight, spends all his time reading, and lets Amren's little she-daedra push him around like a clawless mudcrab!"

"Hey!" Amren protested, insulted.

Ysmir glanced at Farkas, who cast his eyes upward to where Masser and Secunda made their way across the sky. "We have to get going," she told them. "We'll take Lars, Olfrid, but don't expect a muscle-bound warrior when we get back. Sometimes children just aren't going to be who you want them to, and the sooner you accept that, the happier you both will be."

Turning away from his surprised face, she mounted Jughead and turned him toward the road. "I trust I don't need to tell you two to keep this to yourselves from now on? This will never work if any of them find out it was a trick." Satisfied with their nods, she dismissed them from her mind. "Take care of the others," she called to Aela, who was remaining. Sofie would be staying with the Companions while Argis departed in the morning with Alesan and Darva for Ivarstead. "And make sure Sofie feels useful!"

"She'll be safe at Jorrvaskr," the Huntress assured her. "Tilma already adores her."

The Dragonborn smiled. "I'll bet. All right; let's move!"

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Frothar, eldest son of Balgruuf the Greater, warrior-in-training and future Jarl of Whiterun Hold, was petrified. He had gone to sleep in the room he shared with his brother and awoken in a dank, murky place that stank of mildew. Hard stone lay where his plush mattress of goose feathers once resided, and something dripped on him steadily from the cold stone of the ceiling.

He'd never woken so swiftly in his life.

The boy looked around quickly. He was in a pen of some kind—that much was obvious. His sister and brother still slept on the molded straw covering the floor, shivering in the damp. Dagny's expression was already creased in a disapproving frown; he certainly wasn't looking forward to when she woke up and saw where they were. Two other children he recognized from Whiterun were there as well. He didn't know the girl, but the boy was a Battle-Born, if he recalled correctly. He'd never bothered to learn more.

Carefully pulling himself to his feet, Frothar brushed the straw off his pants and froze, not recognizing the heavy canvas tunic and leather trousers he was wearing. The fur shoes were so thin-soled as to be slippers, and barely protected his feet from the cold of the stone floor, let alone anything else. His brother Nelkir and the Battle-Born boy were similarly outfitted, while Dagny and the Redguard girl wore long, half-sleeved dresses of the same canvas, without even an undergown or over-tunic.

No, he really wasn't looking forward to Dagny's reaction when she awoke.

He cast about as quietly as he could, trying to get his bearings. It was fairly obvious that they had been kidnapped. By who, he had no idea, though one side or the other of the Civil War that had raged most of his life was a good bet.

Well, their "cell"—a simple alcove blocked off by a series of heavy, uneven branches wedged into the floor and ceiling—was about fifteen of his paces wide, and about half that deep. Just as he ascertained this, the Battle-Born boy woke with a gasp.

"Good morning," Frothar told him acidly.

"Where are we?" the boy asked, looking bewildered and clearly showing the fear the older boy had been throttling down. He also winced, holding his head and groaning a moment. Frothar hoped he wasn't going to be sick. He felt a little queasy himself, and his head felt vaguely like someone had stuffed it full of tundra cotton, but Battle-Born looked as if he felt worlds worse.

"Haven't the faintest idea," Frothar replied. "Why don't you get up and make yourself useful helping me figure it out, hm?"

The boy flushed, but rose, gazing about himself curiously. "You're one of the Jarl's children," Battle-Born stated after watching him for a long moment.

"Yes. The other two are still out."

For the first time Battle-Born seemed to notice the others, and his expression became somehow even paler when he noticed the Redguard girl. "Not her," he whispered, as if addressing the Divines. "Why couldn't it have been Mila?"

Frothar raised his eyebrows. "You'd rather wish that than that we were all back in our own beds?"

Battle-Born shrugged, turning to squint out into the faint light of the room beyond their cell. Frothar went back to trying to figure out how to rush whoever entered the cell with the most leverage and no weapons when he heard the boy gulp. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's a Spriggan-head on a pike out there," he said, eyes wide and white in the low lighting.

Interested, Frothar picked his way over his siblings and the Redguard girl to peer out of the cell. "That's neat. I didn't think Spriggans were even real."

Battle-Born shook his head. "They're real, all right. And there's only one thing that I've read about that can do _that_ to them." He swallowed heavily when Frothar looked at him inquiringly, "A Hagraven."

For a moment, the noble boy could only stare at him. Then the sound of his laughter woke the others.

"What happened?" Nelkir demanded.

"Well, according to Battle-Born, we were kidnapped by a Hag," Frothar chortled. Nelkir snorted, then realized that, Hag or not, they most definitely weren't in Dragonsreach anymore.

"Battle-Born, you better not have had anything to do with this," the Redguard girl grumbled, rubbing the shoulder she had been laying on.

He scowled at her even as he backed up a pace. "What could I have done? And why would I? Everyone knows the Hagravens are unpredictable."

"'Everyone' knows the Hags are stories to frighten children into obedience and Nords out of the Reach," Frothar retorted, rolling his eyes.

Battle-Born glowered at him, "You just said you didn't believe in Spriggans, and yet there one is! Or…what's left of one, anyway."

Frothar shrugged. "That could be a carving, for all I know."

Dagny, who had gone right from sleeping to spiteful, looked up from where she had been examining her clothing in acute disgust. Marching past Battle-Born, she stopped at the wooden bars and placed her hands on her hips. "I am the Jarl of Whiterun's daughter and I demand to see whoever is in charge, _right now!"_

Battle-Born pulled his hands away from his ears and stared at her as if she were insane, backing quickly against the far wall when her words had an instant effect. A tall woman in blue robes and a cowl walked in, carrying a lantern that cast more shadows than light, as far as Frothar was concerned. The dark blankness where her face was shrouded by the hood seemed to stare calmly in Dagny's direction for a long while. So long, in fact, that even Dagny began to shift uncertainly from foot to foot.

"Naughty children," she finally said, making them all jump. "Naughty children of Whitrun, you are now the property of the Hags. You were warned that a Hag would take away those whose misbehavior was severe, and now it has come to pass. You have no one to blame but yourselves." With that—and before Dagny could even close her mouth, which had dropped open in shock—she turned and swept right back out of the room.

The offended, slightly strangled noise his sister made would have been amusing under other circumstances. "W—Well, I never!" she gasped, outraged. Frothar prepared to throw his hands over his ears as her eyes pressed shut, face twisted into the petulant expression that heralded a full-on, shrieking tantrum.

"You never what?" asked a new voice. They all jumped again, none of them having noticed the boy come into the room. He wore what they wore, but he was outside the cage, arms crossed with a bit of a sneer across his face. Perhaps a year or two younger than Frothar, he had wavy black hair and a sardonic look in his eye.

"I've never been so insulted!" she cried shrilly.

He looked her up and down lazily, taking in her bedraggled state and superior posture, as if he could evaluate all she was by doing so. One eyebrow rose. "I'll bet," he replied sardonically.

Dagny's eyes popped back open in shock as she glared around for the second it took her eyes to track on the boy. Then she did the most peculiar thing; rather than screaming, she looked into his expectant, bored expression and said…nothing. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out, and her face slowly turned from porcelain to deep cherry with embarrassment.

High-handed manner aside, Frothar would have loved to ask the boy how he managed that. No one had cut off one of Dagny's tantrums that effectively since their mother died.

The black-haired boy waited another moment, then cast his cool gaze over the rest of them, face still lightly mocking. "Right. Now, what Illia just told you is true—all those scare-baby tales of Hagravens stealing naughty children has come to rest on your heads, and now we all belong to the Hag Melka."

"Even you?" Battle-Born asked sharply.

"Of course. You think I'd stick around a dump like this if I had a choice?" the boy asked scathingly. "I've been here about a month—girl Runa's been here longer than that. We was bad, and now we get to serve the witch 'til she deems that we truly have changed our naughty ways, or she eats us. Only two ways out, right there," he told them, without an ounce of sympathy in his tone.

"What did you do to get in here?" the Redguard girl asked curiously, still sitting in the straw.

The boy shrugged. "Da was a bandit. I used to help lure people into traps by pretending to be lost or hurt." He looked them all over again and sighed, as if very put-upon. "And now I run errands for a witch. That was hard enough before you milk-drinkers showed up. Now Runa and me gotta show you how stuff is done, and do our own chores to boot."

"And you are?" Frothar asked, irritated.

"Name's Ventis," the boy said, pulling a lever that made all the branches abruptly fall to the ground. "Don't much care who you are. You probably won't be around enough for it to matter, anyways."

Dagny's mouth worked again, emitting a bit of a halting squeaking noise, and Nelkir nudged his older brother's side slightly with his elbow. "If he's a sorcerer, do you think he'd teach us whatever he did to Dagny?"

Frothar shrugged. "I doubt it. Right now, we just have to play along until we can find a way out of here, or until rescue comes. Whatever kind of magic these witches have, they won't be able to fight Farengar and a squadron of guards!"

The sound of heavy, rasping breaths interrupted Nelkir's response. The rude boy outside their cage backed away from the door hastily as a strange sound grew nearer—shuffle, scrape _click,_ shuffle, scrape, _click_—as if something clawed walked ponderously towards them.

"Here they are, Mistress," Ventis said, his tone suddenly deathly polite, fear undercutting every word in a way that made the hair rise on Frothar's neck. When he looked up, he saw that the other boy's fears were completely justified, for there in the door to the room stood a Hag of Legend.

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**Hello, everybody! I hope you enjoyed this week's chapter! My life is still crazy: Working retail at Christmas/Holiday Season. You know what they say; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (or scars you for life and leaves you in therapy, but whatever, I have some bubble wrap).**

**Thank you to all who reviewed!**

**Reader: Yes, we see Babette again. That is all I can really say without spoilers, though.**

**Wicked Lullaby: One kidnapping quest, for your enjoyment. :) Miraak's opinion of the Greybeards pretty much parallels Delphine's in that he thinks they're pretty useless sitting up on their mountain, Shouting at the sky. He might arch an eyebrow and get irritated, but there are worse babysitters.**

**Wynni: Even the Savior of Skyrim isn't above the law, and after Helgen, Ysmir has been extra careful about following the law (when there are people around, anyway). **

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**Next Week: Aventus and Runa take the lead in taming the Brats of Whiterun. Meanwhile, Argis and Aela fight each other and a pair of trolls.**


	39. Chapter 39: Woman's Intuition

The Hag stepped into the little antechamber to their cell, which grew even ranker as she entered it, hands rubbing together greedily. Frothar could barely breath as he took in her horrid visage; the mottled skin, sagging and taunt at the same time; the long, beaklike nose and small, beady eyes; the feathers that sprouted from her attenuated limbs. She shuffled toward them on claws like a bird's, the sound of her ragged breathing filling the air. "Yes, yes. The misbehaving children of the City of Whiterun. Lovely town. It's not every city I visit where I get to take most of the children within! There must be at least three to make it worth it, oh yes. Lately I have made due with country children, but your city called to me, yes it did!"

He had to give the Battle-Born boy credit for courage. "What do you want with us?" he asked. His voice was small and thin, but Frothar hadn't been able to do much more than stare as his heart pounded in his ears.

The Hag turned her gaze to the boy. "Eat you, if you cause too much trouble," she replied irritably, gnashing her teeth at him. He cowered back a bit. "Bandit boy!" she snapped at their guide, the boy who called himself Ventis, "You have told them what is to be doing, yes?"

"I told them they are your servants now, Mistress," he said, face pale as he looked anywhere but at the Hag.

"Good. Join Runaway in kitchen. I go to my parlor; I have new eyeballs for the boiling." With that rather horrifying announcement, she turned and shuffled from the room.

Dagny started to wail.

"Stop that!" Ventis snapped, and—much to her brothers' shock—she stopped immediately, looking just as shocked as they. "She hasn't killed you—she may never kill you, if you make yourself useful. Just do as you're told and you might get out of here one day!"

The Redguard girl stepped forward. "I'm not afraid of any old Hagraven," she announced belligerently, putting her hands on her hips. "I'll fight my way out of here!"

"While I appreciate the sentiment," Frothar replied before Ventis could make the scathing retort obviously on the tip of his sharp tongue, "We have no weapons, and we don't know anything about Hags other than nursery stories."

Battle-Born scratched his cheek idly. "Well, that's not necessarily true. I know quite a bit about Hagravens, actually. Herbane's Bestiary has a section on them. They once were women, but they gave up their humanity in exchange for magic. They surround themselves with death and dead things, and their claws can hold horrible infections."

Ventis actually smiled. "Well, look at you. That knowledge of yours might be useful, if you can find applications for it."

The Battle-Born boy flushed. "Thanks. It's the first time my reading's paid off, really."

"It hasn't yet," the Redguard girl reminded him curtly.

"Anyway, I should bring you girls to Runa in the kitchen—Melka calls her Runaway. Don't expect the Hag to call you by name. Illia might, but only if you've been either really bad or really good." Ventis turned and lead them down another dank hallway. This one, however, seemed to get less oppressive further in, and Frothar quickly discovered why; it ended in a brightly-lit kitchen.

Elves ear and garlic braids hung from rafters black with centuries of smoke. Rabbits, pheasants, and chickens hung where they could be easily reached, a pan under them to catch any dripping blood. Strings of sausages hung in the smokiest part near the fire, and the largest kettle of water he'd ever seen steamed over another fire, a pile of dirty dishes of cracked Nordic pottery or tin in the crate beside it, obviously waiting to be washed.

Dagny wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What are we supposed to do in _here?"_ she demanded, then abruptly bit her tongue as Ventis shot her an irate look.

"Help me make stew, of course," a voice said from around an alcove. A girl Ventis's age came out, also wearing the canvas dress tied at the waist with an apron, with long blond hair braided down her back. Despite everything, her lips curled with good humor, her large brown eyes, light enough to actually have been hazel, dancing as she looked her new helpers over. "I'm Runa," she introduced herself. "You are?"

Ventis snorted before any of them had a chance to respond. "Why bother? Half of them will be gone before the end of the month, anyway," he said, setting a cold lump of dread in Frothar's stomach to replace the sudden swarm of butterflies.

She brandished a wooden spoon at him with mock-severity. "I can make your life miserable," she warned.

He shrugged, a cocky little smile on his face. "But you won't."

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Runa almost burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. Aventus was taking this much better than she was. Last night, when they had been introduced to this "Melka," she had almost backed out of the whole thing. Only the thought that a Companion wouldn't back down from a challenge had kept her feet rooted to the spot, and allowed her to smile and nod when Ysmir asked if they would be all right.

Well, that and the knowledge that Miss Illia was apparently an old friend of her mother's, and knew how to handle the Hags. She didn't think her brave face was quite as convincing as she was hoping, however, for Miss Serana had taken one look at her and declared she could play a witch as well, and would only return after she had bought suitable garments. She had helped Mother make the canvas tunics and fur shoes they all wore, spelled against diseases and poisons, just to be safe. It was more to get these protections on the children than a sense of spite that made them strip the nobles of their fine clothing.

Aventus winked at her, and she shook her head, smiling a little despite her reservations. He really was doing much better now that he had something important to do. They had worked their strategy out the night before with Illia, who said she would pass it on to Melka. The Hag seemed a bit hurt that the Dragonborn's children were so scared of her—at least, according to Illia—but there was little Runa could do about that, especially when being friendly with the Hag could ruin the entire plan.

They were doing a variation of what Aela called good-guard/bad-guard, and what Ysmir's book on dog-training called "behavior reinforcement." Aventus was being a complete and total cretin to everyone but her—unless they showed good behavior. Then he would be nice to them. Runa, on the other hand, would be as patient and kind as her nature allowed, and show them what needed to be done, only losing her temper if they were very bad. Dangling the carrot that really good behavior would force the witch to let them go had been part of the plan all along—for why else would the children bother to try to change if they had nothing to work toward?—and Runa had decided that they should tell a tale of a child that had gotten away that way. Not in her stay there, of course, but perhaps a tale told to her by one of the supposed children already captured when she arrived.

"I'm Braith," the Redguard girl said with a scowl at Aventus. The girl was short and well-muscled in the way of farm-hands or fighters, her shoulders broad and her hands calloused. Her short nose gave a rather unfortunate piggish cast to her features when she thrust her chin forward belligerently, as she was doing now. Runa rather thought she could be somewhat attractive if she would stop scowling and let her lovely eyes relax into a smile, rather than scrunching them up under her forbidding brow. "The milk-drinker there is Lars Battle-Born, and the other three are the Jarl's get from Dragonsreach."

Runa let her eyebrows rise, as if in surprise. "Dragonsreach in Whiterun?" she asked, noticing Dagny begin to preen a little as she thought someone finally was going to give her the attention she deserved. "I was on my way to Whiterun when Melka caught me. I wanted to join up with the Companions."

"The Companions?" the biggest boy blurted out—the first thing he'd said so far. Runa wondered if he were a bit simple as well as very large, for he had done nothing but stare in her direction with a sort of open-mouthed, bug-eyed look since he walked in. "You wanted to join the Companions?"

"You have to be awful good to join the Companions," the smallest boy, of perhaps ten or eleven, said, eyeing her doubtfully. Runa reminded herself that she was the "good guard" and smiled at him.

"Yes," she purred, "You do."

"I am not cooking anything!" the other girl said emphatically, stamping her foot. Runa judged her to be about twelve, pretty, and ridiculously pampered, judging from her milky-white complexion and soft, delicate hands without so much as a writer's callus.

The older girl shrugged, as if it was no matter of hers. "Very well; wash dishes then. Or, if you prefer, I can show you where the laundry is and you could do that."

It was very, very hard not to laugh at the expression on the girl's face. Pretending not to notice it for a moment, Runa went back to rolling out dough, sprinkling on the spoonful of flour she had gone into the storage area for. When Dagny made a sort of strange, half-garbled protest, she looked up, acted as if she had expected them to get to it, and sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "Around here you either help make the food, or you become the food. Your choice."

"You've prepared people for dinner?" Nelkir asked, sounding strangely fascinated and revolted at the same time.

She was every bit as repulsed by the thought as he was, "Of course not!" she snapped.

They looked relieved and a bit suspicious, and she fought the sinking feeling she had given away the ruse already until Aventus chimed in; "Melka prefers them raw."

Lars Battle-Born turned and lost whatever was in his stomach at that announcement.

"That's disgusting," the big one said, although she wasn't quite sure if he were talking about Lars or Melka's eating habits.

Aventus glanced sympathetically at the boy, but quickly replaced it with an indifferent expression. "If we're going to get enough firewood cut for Illia's inspection, we'd better get moving."

Lars wiped the spittle from his mouth. "I'm not very good with an axe," he said tiredly.

Braith groaned. "Fine. You stay here and chop vegetables. I'll go cut wood." She marched past him as he looked at her in surprise. "What?" she asked irritably when she noticed. "I don't want to get eaten just because you couldn't fill a quota."

"Oh," he said, looking like he had just found firmer ground. "I see."

"We're wasting time," Aventus huffed, striding past her. "Don't get eaten!" he called to Runa, in what they had decided would be their habitual good-bye.

"You either!" she called, then turned to Lars and Dagny, wondering what they were going to do.

Lars looked around at the assortment of spoons, bowls, and foodstuffs and looked bewildered. Dagny threw herself onto a stool and proceeded to wail in mixed anger and fear. Runa sighed. Not a very auspicious start, was it?

.

* * *

.

Darva was humming softly to herself, in a rather good mood despite being separated—yet again—from her mother, and sent off to the boring monastery at the top of the Throat of the World. Allie was a sweet horse, and very pretty, and seemed not to mind Darva braiding her mane as the children rode her up the Seven Thousand Steps. She had done her doll's hair a few times until she had gotten sick of that, so she had naturally moved on to the pretty black mane right before her idle hands.

Behind her, Alesan groaned a bit. He'd been looking a bit sick for a while now. Argis and Aela hadn't seemed to notice that much. They were too intent on each other since arguing yesterday morning about Aela coming at all, back when they were all back at Jorrvaskr. Finally, Kodlak had put his foot down and declared that the Steps were treacherous enough on their own, but with two children in tow, anyone could use an extra hand, and Argis had finally relented. Darva wasn't entirely sure why he had had a problem with it to start with, other than something about Aela not trusting his skills and her supposed to be staying with Sofie, or something like that.

At any rate, the night before they had snapped at each other across the fire all night without actually saying anything about what was bothering them. Then a pair of bandits had attacked, and they had killed them, giving each other long, appraising looks afterwards, and now somehow they were friends again. She wasn't exactly sure what had happened, but grown-ups were odd at the best of times, what with them not needing to eat all their vegetables but not allowed to splash in the lake in their underwear. Darva was fairly certain that at some point, perfectly reasonable people suddenly became silly, and then they were considered adults.

Alesan leaned forward, gazing over her shoulder at where the two in question walked, side by side. "If they were any closer together they would be getting in each other's way."

"It's because they want to hold hands," Darva told him happily, having finally figured out what all the fuss was about somewhere around three shrines ago. "They want to hold hands, but they don't know if the other one wants to hold hands, so neither of them does anything."

There was a pause behind her. "What makes you think that?"

"Woman's intuition," Darva said loftily, as she had seen Ysmir do when one of the Papas questioned how she knew something.

Alesan snorted. "Yeah, right. I'll believe that in about ten years."

His sister pouted a bit, but Alesan was literally twice her age, and he had a point. At least she had about that long before she started getting all silly. "Look at them, though," she persisted. "Don't they remind you of Aventus when Babeth was around? He was always trying to take her hand, but she would move away at the last second to smooth her hair, or touch her necklace, or jab a needle through Runa's earlobe. They look just like that."

"It's sort of creepy that you paid that much attention," he told her.

She shrugged. "It's not often we have a new person around. I was curious."

Ahead of them, the two adults were luckily paying too much attention to the path ahead to listen in on the children's conversation. Argis still resented the implication that he wasn't up to this task alone, although he had to admit that having Aela around had been infinitely useful. He snuck another glance at her out of his good eye. He honestly didn't know how she stayed protected (or warm enough) in that old armor she wore, but he certainly couldn't complain about how she looked in it. Her intelligent silver eyes scanned the road ahead, seeming to pop even more in contrast to the stripes of green war paint she applied every morning. Seeing her without it the night before had taken him a little off-guard, with her red-brown hair dripping from her dunk in the river, smile huge as she displayed a pair of trout she had caught by hand. This morning he had covertly watched as she applied it again, then gave the giggling Darva a pair of painted thorns over and under her left eye. It had almost made him wish he hadn't decided to get his habitual pointed spiral tattooed years ago, so he needn't go about painting it on every morning.

A glance in his direction caught him looking, and she frowned a little. "Need something?" she asked.

"I was just wondering how you became a Companion," he said with a shrug. "Ysmir said there was a story behind it."

Aela smiled, "Not much of one. My mother was a Companion, and her mother before her. All the women in my family back to Hrotti Blackblade have been Companions. I stayed with my father in the woods until I was old enough for my Trial. We hunted everything there was to hunt... Ma didn't live long enough to see me join, but I fight to honor her and all my Shield-Sisters through time."

"Is your father the one that taught you to catch trout bare-handed?" he asked, a note of teasing in his voice that he hadn't intended.

The Huntress didn't seem to mind. "Yes."

"Did you always want to be a Companion?" he asked after a few moments, "Or was there something else you wanted to do?"

"I always knew I'd be a Companion," she revealed, "It never occurred to me not to want it."

He glanced out over the tundra below them, not able to ask the questions he really wanted: Was her father a werewolf? Had she always been one? It hadn't been too difficult to figure out that she bore the Beast Blood, not after their journey back from the Reach. She was too good a tracker, and would go off for hours at a time some nights. Even after they reached Lakeview Manor, she still slept outside, and seemed to mind the cold even less than normal Nords. The other Companions must know, so she probably didn't have a problem controlling her beast state. All the same, he wasn't about to come out and tell her that he knew.

Aela halted abruptly, eyes narrowing as she examined the pass before them, nostrils flared subtly. It was a good place for an ambush, he admitted, casting his eye over it. "Trolls like to lair in this pass," she said.

Argis suppressed a groan, hand going to his sword, but she held up a hand. "I'll go in first, see if I can get in without anything realizing I'm there until I know what—if anything—is occupying it now."

He nodded, telling the children to stay put until they came and got them while the Huntress nocked an arrow to her bow, creeping forward with nary a sound.

Testing the air carefully, Aela moved silently over the snow, barely letting it crunch under her boots. It hadn't been too long since Ysmir had gone through here with Inigo—perhaps a little under a month. Shouldn't be another troll here so quickly…

She cursed. That's what she got for thinking that, she reflected wryly, watching the pair of trolls lumber around the pass. A mated pair, it seemed like, and so even more vicious than usual. They _would_ come across a pair just after breeding season, when the three-eyed monstrosities were at their meanest. Deliberately, step by careful step, Aela moved back to the front of the pass. If she could transform…but she couldn't. While Argis had promised not to attack any non-hostile werewolves at the house, he hadn't promised the same out here, nor should he. Few humans could tell one werewolf from another, and he'd have no way of knowing. Even if he weren't here, she was sure it would terrify the children.

Her thoughts had strayed too much. The snow crunched under a too-hasty footfall, and she froze. The trolls looked up, saw her, and roared, jumping about and beating their chests before running toward her. Aela got off two shots, hitting the big female in the shoulder before she turned and ran, only to skid to a halt. If she ran, she would lead them right back to the children.

The troll's massive arm swiped the air where her head had been as she ducked under it, racing between the pair and back into the pass. "That's right, Ugly; follow me!" she cried, turning and pulling a few of the special arrows Ysmir had given her from her quiver. She released the ebony-tipped shaft, sending it flying across the distance to thunk into the male, where it exploded in a plume of fire. The troll roared in pain, curling forward over the not-big-enough hole in its upper chest, where the arm met the shoulder. She followed it up with a second, knowing the damage was already healing.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggg!"

The troll staggered, twisting its body to swing at Argis, who was already well out of reach. "I'm going to put you down!" he roared right back at it, actually managing to cleave a few of its fingers off by having his sword braced to intercept its next attack.

Aela twisted out of the way of the female's strike. She _would _get the bigger one, wouldn't she? She fired again, aiming for its eye, but it moved at the last second and the arrow sailed harmlessly over its head and into the snow above.

Into the snow above…

"Argis! Get them under the overhang!" she yelled, firing another shot into the female's side, circling carefully to always be just out of range. The troll growled, enraged, and lunged for her. Aela ducked under the hand only to find the other one there, grasping her head before she could react. The troll squeezed, and she screamed in pain.

_"Paar Thur Nax!"_ a young voice rang out, echoing through the canyon and giving the trolls pause. Overhead, a dragon bellowed a challenge, shadow passing overhead.

Finding herself quickly dropped into the snow, Aela looked up, somewhat dazedly watching the trolls retreat under the outcropping rock. Oh. Right.

Argis, halfway over to her with a flatteringly panicked look on his face, stumbled to a stop as she sat up swiftly, drew her bow, and cast her exploding arrow into the rock above the trolls, aiming for the area most riddled with cracks and erosion. The mountain rumbled a moment before the overburdened rock gave way, fracturing along the inward curve to drop the roof of the canyon, snowpack and all, onto the hapless trolls. Allowing herself a moment of self-congratulations, the Huntress flopped backwards into the snow, staring up at the sky. It wasn't at its prettiest, being full of dull, dirty-dishwater shaded clouds with a dragon wheeling before them, but at that moment it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Wait, scratch that. Argis was leaning over her worriedly, his amber eye flickering down her body and back to her face, trying to assess the damage—though she found she wouldn't really mind if he proved to be enjoying what he saw. The only one she had ever allowed that kind of liberty was Skjor.

"Are you alright?" he asked, fingers gently probing her skull through her hair, searching for injury. "That troll almost killed you!"

Almost, she thought, looking up at him dully. He'd been every bit as fierce as Farkas going after that troll, fighting as intelligently as Vilkas and as nimbly as she prided herself on being. Now he had his fingers threaded through her hair, which felt surprisingly good, and the warmth of battle exertion radiating out of his armor, which was also nice.

"Oh, to Oblivion with it," she muttered, reaching up and pulling his surprised face down to hers, yanking him off-balance so that he half fell across her.

.

* * *

.

When Alesan and Darva finally ventured in some time later, it was to find them still sprawled together in the snow, arms wrapped tightly around each other and completely oblivious to everything else. Even the rumble of Grandfather Paarthurnax walking along the ground beside them didn't seem to bother them. Alesan grimaced in disgust while his sister smiled proudly. "See?" she said smugly, "I told you."

.

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**Aaaand here's this week's edition: Hope you like it!**

**So I have the best boyfriend in all of existence. I was having a horrible, horrible day, and then I come home to find he got my Christmas present early-a pair of chinchilla sisters! They're so cute and fuzzy and hoppy! I don't know what I'm going to name them yet, but I can't wait until they let me pet them!**

**Welcome, new followers and favorites! Thank you to those who reviewed!**

**Wynni: It wasn't so long ago that Aventus would play pretend with the others. He hasn't lost all those skills. :) As for Lars, Ysmir was a) running a bit behind schedule, b) knew that he might be miserable but be in no danger, c) having been through something so miserable would gain him some respect by his family, and d) figured his demanding grandpa would give the whole game away if she didn't take him. As for the Ebony Blade, it's still in the basement. **

**.**

**Next Week: The Brats are settling into their situation when a second witch appears (and this one has fangs). Elsewhere, Ysmir finds out why Odahviing is so blasé about her situation with Miraak. **


	40. Chapter 40: Dream Forge

"A little faster next time—good! Now block this next one."

"You know, she's really good," Nelkir said quietly, sitting next to his brother on the steps looking down into a mostly empty room where Runa had taken up the task of teaching Lars a thing or two after the chores were finished. After four solid days of them, Frothar had despaired of them _ever_ being finished. "She might have been able to join the Companions."

"She will," Frothar stated firmly. "We're going to get out of here and back to Dragonsreach, and…" he wasn't exactly sure how one became a Companion, but he was pretty sure having Balgruuf order them to take a young girl on his say-so wasn't it. It would probably work—his father was Jarl, after all—but he had the feeling it would insult Runa no end. She was strange like that.

"No," Nelkir sagged, face taking on that same angry, downcast look he always wore when he'd been to visit the kitchen basement, "we're never going to leave on our own. Look at her," he gestured to where Runa danced nimbly out of the way of Lars's clumsy practice blade, stopped, and adjusted his stance as he glanced at her with reddened cheeks. The pitted stone they practiced over was almost black with age and damp, most of it covered by more moldy straw which they had kicked out in a roughly circular space. "Runa does everything she's told without complaining. She's so nice she doesn't even pick on Lars, and she talks to Miss Illia with perfect manners. I caught her _hugging_ Braith when she started crying in the kitchen. If she's still here, we're sure as rain not getting out."

His older brother sighed, going back to watching the pair below. The style Runa was teaching Lars was unlike anything the guards or his instructors had ever taught him. Born under the Steed Stone, he was supposed to be remarkably strong, so they had started preparing him for either broadsword or sword and shield at a young age. His method was very direct and heavy-handed—Irileth had once complained that his personality was going the same way. He'd protested to his father, but Balgruuf had agreed with her, and made him sit in on several diplomatic meetings where force was the last resort.

Runa's style was also about force, but in a totally different way. She let her opponent exert force and then used it against them, tiring them out and keeping them off-balance as she stayed just out of reach, darting in with a slash or a shove as her enemy shot past her, propelled by their own momentum. "She'd do well in light armor," Frothar said, thinking aloud. "Glass, I think. It would bring out her eyes."

Nelkir turned to him in astonishment, looking quite as if that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. He didn't get much of a chance to comment, however, as a particularly familiar stomping sound heralded the arrival of their severely unhappy sister.

"I hate this place!" Dagny cried (by now it had practically become litany), throwing herself down onto the uneven stair next to them. After days of living here, she had finally stopped searching in vain for a clean place to sit, or turning up her nose and standing. She was all over dirt anyway; they all were. After two days of trying in vain to keep her hair neat with nothing but her fingers, she'd finally given in and let Runa braid it in a crown about her head. It looked better than how she normally wore it, in Frothar's opinion, but she kept calling it a "peasant style" and complaining that her hair was so soiled she would never be able to unwind it.

Frothar rolled his eyes. "What happened this time?" he asked, not caring so much but he'd learned years ago to that the best way to mollify his sister was to just let her complain for a while. If you didn't ask she'd just complain anyway, and then it lasted longer.

"Ventis!" she raged, embarrassment in every furious line of her. "I ordered the Redguard to do the dishes for me, and he said I'd do them, or he'd dunk me in the boiler pot with them!"

"At least you'd smell better," Nelkir commented unwisely.

Dagny glared at him a moment as her brothers braced themselves, but—shockingly—she just closed her mouth and looked away, clenched hands held tight against her chest and something suspiciously like tears in her eyes. "I hate it here," she whispered.

Frothar frowned, then leaned over, putting his hand over her forehead. She jerked back, giving him something close to her normal irate look, which he found far less disturbing that whatever it was that had crossed her face a moment ago. "Well, you're not ill," he said, taking his hand back, "but my little sister is the Lady of Whiterun; she wouldn't sully her pride by crying over doing a few dishes."

A moment of thought, then she smiled hesitantly, tilting her chin up. "Right."

Nelkir stared at her like he didn't recognize her, but Frothar smiled right back. This was the Dagny he remembered, before Mother died and the dragons came back. "You used to like dirt, you know," he said impulsively, making them both give him identical perplexed frowns. "You would sneak out of the caravan when we went visiting places and dig up mountain flowers, putting them in all your pockets and claiming you were going to cover the Great Porch with them, and make it into a garden." He shook his head, "Mother always complained that you ruined all your dresses that way."

Dagny licked her lips, which were a little chapped. "I don't remember."

"You were really little," he said, looking down the stairs as Runa started climbing them, glowing with exertion. He never ceased to be amazed at how cheerful she remained, though he did catch her staring off into the distance sometimes, a troubled expression on her face. He hated to think that the one person who was somewhat happy here was putting on an act, but it made more sense than not. Besides, all he'd seen of Runa pointed toward someone who would put on just such a façade to keep everyone else's spirits up.

Melka aside, she really was the strangest person he'd ever met. Besides possibly the Dragonborn, but legendary heroes were supposed to be eccentric.

"Anyone else want a go?" she asked, one hand on her hip as the other pushed stray strands of hair off her face.

"Sure," Braith put in. Frothar jumped, wondering how long the girl had been leaning against the doorframe, close enough to possibly listen in on their conversation. He rose so she could get down the stairs, making a gallant gesture that actually made the Redguard blush and Runa chuckle appreciatively. Really, if things went on like this, he thought he could hold out until rescue came. They hadn't seen Melka since that first day, and none of them seemed in any immediate danger of being eaten. True, they had to do a lot of work, and it was probably the least fun he'd ever had in his life, but for the first time in over a year he wasn't bored, and that had to count for something.

.

* * *

.

Braith was a bit awkward with a sword, it seemed. Runa tried not to let her surprise show, correcting the girl's stance and handhold without comment. She must not have succeeded as well as she'd hoped, though. "Papa was supposed to teach me, but he changed his mind," Braith told her, a little bashfully. "He said war was no place for a little girl. I wanted to go with him on his adventures…he said Mother would miss me too much."

"He's probably right—about the Mother thing, I mean," Runa said, pressing her hand on the younger girl's shoulders a bit to get her to bend her knees.

"I doubt she's even noticed I'm gone yet," Braith muttered. "Probably just thinks I learned to be quiet, if she's even thought about it."

Runa frowned, stepping back. "What do you mean?"

Braith shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm just…a bit of a bother to my parents, is all," she said, but Runa could hear the hurt under the blustering tone. She glanced at Lars, who wore the same frown she sported.

"Planning an uprising?" a familiar voice asked.

Everyone jumped, looking at the far doorway to the hidden entrance to the towers. Miss Serana stood there, face hidden by a cowl that in no way disguised the orange glow of her eyes. Thick red war paint covered features warped in the normal bat-like vampiric snarl, completely changing her usual lovely face into a grotesque nightmare. Combined with the shadow of the hood, she looked perfectly ghoulish. She walked slowly into the room, gazing at everyone. "We have some new faces, I see," she stated, giving Runa a subtle wink.

"Ana, my dear," a voice rasped, and Melka appeared from the shadows, quite as if she'd been there the entire time. Braith gasped and hid behind Runa, while Lars became so still he might have been turned to stone. Above, all the color drained from Nelkir and Frothar's faces, and Dagny flat out ran from the room.

"Melka," Serana said warmly—she and the Hag had actually managed to bond at some point over ancient alchemy reagents. "I brought you a fresh sack of eyes! Only a few, I'm afraid, but they're mostly Altmer."

Melka cackled and glanced in the sack, "Thalmor patrol?"

"Of course," Serana said with a shrug, "I had to kill them anyway, so why let them go to waste? There are also a few Sabre cat eyes in there…"

"Yes, yes!" the Hag said in glee, holding one up to examine it better, "They go lovely in juniper vinegar, yes!"

Lars was staring at them, horrified. Runa probably was too, but she managed not to make any noise while doing so. The revolted moan he made definitely caught their attention, and Melka's head whipped around. "Round eyes," she noticed, making his already wide eyes widen even further, which couldn't have helped matters. "Pretty, pretty blue eyes…" she noted, walking up and taking Lars's face in her hands, taloned thumbs a hair's breadth from each optical orb.

"Leave him alone!" Braith shouted, yanking Lars out of Melka's grip. The Hag blinked, surprised, as Braith actually pushed her backwards a bit, standing between her and the boy. The girl paused, face pale as she apparently realized what she had just done. "You don't want him," she squeaked, "He shouldn't even be here. He's a weak little milk-drinker who spends all his time living in books and never talking to anyone." She swallowed. "If that were bad, you would have taken my Mother, too."

"Only take children," Melka replied, vastly entertained by this development. "All little morsels drink milk. Good for eyes." Taking a moment to examine Lars, she nodded. "Book Boy," she decided, then turned to Runa. "Runaway! Feed Book Boy. Want his eyes bigger," she announced, then strode from the room, taking Serana's arm while she was at it and starting up a conversation about werewolves.

For a long moment the children just listened to their footsteps recede, then Braith sagged, sitting abruptly right where she had stood, breathing heavy. Lars gingerly touched her shoulder, "Braith…thanks."

She blushed, wrenching her shoulder away from his hand. "No one picks on you, Battle-Born, you got that?" she tried to snarl. It only sounded tired. "No one but me."

Lars stiffened, then looked away sullenly. "Yeah, I get it."

No, he didn't, Runa thought, watching Braith's wretched expression and feeling the pieces fall into place. She'd have to do a little digging to see if her theory was correct, but perhaps there was more to the little bully that met the eye.

.

* * *

.

Ysmir looked up from writing in her journal when a familiar gust of wind swept by. Familiar, because it was the type formed by a dragon swooping overhead, but she hadn't heard a challenge, so she wasn't surprised to see the bright red scales of Odahviing as he backwinged next to their campsite, mostly hidden in the dense darkness of the surrounding forest. _"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin,"_ he said genially.

"Hello, Odahviing," she replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. "What brings you here?"

The front of his wings tilted upwards briefly; the dragon equivalent of a shrug. _"Grozein._ I was hunting nearby when I saw your _lokaliin_ in the woods. I have been over your _praav_, Ysmir; it was empty. Have you decided to live there no longer?"

"That's complicated," she temporized. "I'm just…the Jarl of Falkreath proposed to me. I'm staying away from him until he's tied to someone else." He would learn of it sooner or later, but she'd rather not tell him about Siddgeir threatening Runa; she was pledged to slay any dragon that attacked the Holds she was Thane of. The fact that she had made that pledge before she was friends with any of them was moot.

Odahviing growled. _"Tafiir!_ He seeks to take a female already mated?"

She huffed, "I can take whoever I want to bed, Odahviing; I'm not married."

The Red Dragon shook his head. "You have a child by another _dovah._ The very act of taking others as well astounds me, but you are human, too."

"We are not talking about him!" she growled, so vehemently his eyes widened. "Besides, I thought you didn't even like him, after what happened before."

Another shrug, _"Tol los folov,_ I do not. His hatred of us runs very deep, but you each have the soul of a _dovah,_ and there is only one soul made to match yours."

Processing this for a moment and thanking the Divines the twins were out hunting, she surmised, "Dragons mate for…well, eternity?" Just what she needed, a dragon with romantic notions about soul mates. What had she ever done to Mara to deserve this?

_"Geh,"_ he replied, nodding his great head. "Once there were only _dov,_ neither _punmak nuv punah,_ male nor female, though the humans thought us male. After countless years living our solitary lives we grew _naalein_, lonely, and traded our invulnerability to Kyne in exchange for three of her daughters. Several of the dragons who existed wished to bear young, as well, and she changed them accordingly. One of those was Odfilyol, my mother, who did not wish to be parted from her _sil fahdon_, and so chose to become his mate. She and my father told me of Kyne's great gift to the _dov_, and when I became an adult I was given a _hahnu heim_ of the mate I would have." His tone grew introspective as he looked up at the dancing lights overhead. "She perched on a tower above the world, the _loksilkun_ behind her. _Rek kuz dii su'um_, she was so beautiful. Her scales were the color of the snow under the aurora, edged with the gold of the sun."

His head came down, and she was saddened to see great sorrow in his eyes. "When the war with the_ joor_ began, my parents wanted no part and flew to _bromen himdah_. Many _dov_ fell to the _joor,_ more than we ever would have thought possible. When Alduin resurrected them, they began to scatter their bones, making weapons and armor of them so they could not be reassembled. And one day the _hahnu heim_ faded, and I knew that she would never be born into this world, for too many of her _sosrei_ had been slain_. Nust krii ek haalvut ek, _Dovahkiin. Their deaths prevented her life."

Ysmir reached up and gently touched his muzzle, crying for his sake because dragons could not. "I'm sorry, Odahviing."

He closed his eyes and gave a great sigh, the hot air washing over her and leaving her even more chilled in its wake. "So am I, Dovahkiin, _aalkos zuk fein hi fen alun mindok_. It is the nature of these things that I would be drawn to her from the start, the moment I met her. _Nid trun ek buld._"

Ysmir drew her hand back like he had burned her, the words sending a strange thrill of terror through her. "Odahviing, when I met Miraak, he knew I was Dragonborn. How is that?"

"Miraak has lived long with his _dovahsil,_ he can see with the eyes of the _dov,_ where you still see with the eyes of the _joor,"_ he told her, sounding a bit like he was scolding her for it. _"Rok honah hi,_ he knew without knowing you were his the moment of your meeting. You told the tale yourself, that he could have slain you as you were helpless before him, or kept your _sil_ in Apocrypha where you could not interfere with his _mein_. He did neither."

"No, he just had his Seekers send me back to my body in the most conveniently painful way possible," she groused, crossing her arms.

_"Rok genun ok mul,"_ Odahviing persisted, "He tried to impress you before he sent you away."

"Tried to cow me is more like it," she argued. "I don't want anything to do with him."

_"Nokin,"_ Odahviing muttered, nosing her affectionately before letting loose another sigh that nearly blew out the firepit, "Still, _hi los gluuskei, _Ysmir. There is a mate for you, should you choose to accept him. Even if he is a…_fos los uniid_…you _joor_ have a perfect word for this…" he trailed off, then perked up suddenly. "Ah, _zu'u lost nii; reym raf!_ An anus hole!"

Ysmir had a hard time explaining to the twins why she was rolling on the ground in tears of laughter when they returned soon after, Odahviing standing over her, thoroughly confused.

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**"_Hahnu heim" =_ vision. Literally "dream forge," or "a forged (created) dream."**

**One of my chi babies (what I have been calling the chinchillas; I have no idea where it came from) let me hold her today! At first they wouldn't come near me, but today she hopped onto my hands then crawled into my arms and even onto my shoulder! Of course, I think she really wanted to get to the table behind me and was using me as a stepping stone, but I'll take what I can get. :) One more weekend of retail hell and then I'm fr-well, retail goes back to being somewhat normal.**

**Thank you to everyone who read! I hope you liked this chapter! Welcome new favorites and watchers!**

**Wynni: a) Spoilers, b) Sorry if you got the impression that Miraak was in this chapter. He's talked about, but not here, as you can see. Didn't mean to be misleading. As for trolls, the game gets a bit boring when you're too over-powered, so I upscaled some things. I find I enjoy it better when it's still a rush to survive fighting things like trolls and Spriggans, so they've all pretty much leveled with the characters. So, essentially, they're fighting troll bosses.**

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**Next Week: Aventus is introspective, and some strange things start happening around-and to-Sofie.**


	41. Chapter 41: When I Saw a Lass so Pale

Aventus stared out over the little valley below the window he occupied. It wasn't a valley like he was used to, sloping down gently from high, rolling mountains, but a wrenching slice through jagged peaks, littered with boulders and basalt up-thrusts. Wiry juniper trees held themselves in the rocky soil as if trying to strangle whatever perch they had found, and every once in a while a pair of hunters in ragged animal hides would creep past, bows at the ready as they stalked whatever bit of game they tracked.

He'd never thought of any part of Skyrim as soft before, but this place was certainly sharper than the rest. It felt dead to him, in the same way that altar Ysmir and the Papas had removed felt dead. The same way Grelod's gaze felt dead when she took her cane to him. Were he Queen Elisif he'd hand it over to the Reachmen and clean his hands of both the Foresworn and their rocky, bloodless Reach.

He hadn't thought of Grelod in a while. Funny it would be the land itself that reminded him of her, and not the situation they were pretending to be in or the Hag Melka. Looks aside, this was worlds better than Honorhall. Despite her appearance, Melka truly did like Aventus and Runa, and had promised not to harm Ysmir's "little nibbles." She seemed quite amused by the whole thing, actually, and had even gotten Illia to give them each a sweetroll the night before after the other children had fallen asleep, exhausted. While this was certainly more work than the others were used to, it wasn't even more work than the Dragonborn's children had at Lakeview, and only the others' newness to the tasks made them take so long. Well, that and general reluctance to do them.

Back at the Orphanage, Francois, another Imperial boy, had believed Grelod to actually be a Hagraven. He'd have to tell him better next time he saw him—the terrifying Melka had shown him more kindness in a day than Grelod had the entire time he was at the Orphanage. Perhaps it was only because he had been new, or perhaps she had just taken a dislike to him in particular, but she had always seemed to watch him more than the other children, claiming he was too quiet, too sneaky, and she didn't need bad blood like that under her roof. Now, here he was, willingly pretending to be Bad Blood in order to terrify a bunch of brats worse than he'd ever been afraid, making them think they were in a place worse than he'd come from while they were in no danger at all. It was sort of ironic, really.

_"Wanderer, I'm just a wanderer, Trav-ling over hills and dale. Saw many sights, fought many fights, when I saw a lass so pale…"_ he sang absently, gazing up at the uneven line of peaks. _"She took my heart and she took my mind, with eyes so blue and hair so fine, I left me men and I pledged my life, and now I do a-wander…"_

He wondered what Babette was doing. He thought…he'd been so mad at her, at himself, after her friend poisoned his family, but after what Darva told him…Aventus sighed. Darva. There was another puzzle. How had she learned to Shout? And now Alesan could do it.

Maybe he could learn.

Would being able to Shout impress Babette?

Growling a bit in irritation, he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. She was an assassin, and nothing good could come from thinking about her now: Why couldn't he get her out of his head? It helped being somewhere away from the house, doing things that were important, even if he had no idea how Ysmir had come up with this bizarre plan for behavioral correction. Sometimes, he wondered just how his adoptive mother had grown up, to think up such things. Most parents would be clutching their children tight at the very thought that a Hag might get them: Ysmir had introduced them personally. Things that would have been completely anathema to his birth parents barely made her bat an eye.

He cast his eyes over the dark stonework of the tower, wondering if a Sanctuary was anything like this. It must be, if they were as ancient as Ysmir's books suggested. He didn't imagine killing people left a lot of time for domestic upkeep. The mental image of a group of assassins with mops and pails was every bit as bizarre as the Dragonborn's current plan.

His thoughts ground to a halt at that. Ysmir was a mage, but she was every bit as gifted in the art of stealth as Aunt Aela. On the rare occasion when bandits got too close to the house—or one time when they actually got into the house—and she couldn't use magic without needing to repair something, he had seen her use her long dagger to deadly effect, most times without the bandit even knowing she was there until it was too late.

What had she said just after they had captured Babette? _"I'm hardly one to disparage you if you make that choice,"_ she'd said. As if she couldn't judge him for it. Because she was guilty of it?

The boy clutched at the window, thoughts reeling. It made quite a bit of sense, Ysmir being a former assassin. She knew plenty of their tricks, or else she probably would have been killed by now. Not Dark Brotherhood, he didn't think, or else they wouldn't be trying to kill her. Unless she had left them on bad terms, in which case they would be trying to kill her a lot harder than they were. Honestly, if they had a marksman like Aunt Aela in the Brotherhood, Ysmir would be doomed. The thought chilled him. Perhaps they didn't have one now, but who's to say they wouldn't get one? Perhaps Ysmir had once been an assassin, or something like one, but there was always someone out there better than you, and all it took was the Brotherhood finding them.

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Sofie looked up from her book as Argis and Aela walked past, not really able to tell if they were arguing or getting along. They had bickered like that even before they had left to take Darva and Alesan to High Hrothgar, and now they were doing it _and _giving each other long, piercing looks that ended in a sigh or a smile. Kodlak seemed to find them endlessly amusing, and would often watch with a small smile on his face, as he was doing now. They were getting ready to head out on an assignment, retrieving some stolen item from a group of Foresworn. Argis had volunteered to show Aela where it was, looking quite eager to see the Reach again.

Sofie was supposed to be reading to Kodlak from a Brief History of the Empire, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention other to quiz her on what she thought of the subject matter. What she thought was that people fought too much when they could simply talk things out, but she wasn't about to say that to the grizzled old warrior beside her. Briefly, she wondered why he still wore armor when he wasn't going out anywhere.

"You're not reading, lass," the Harbinger reminded her gently.

"My eyes are a bit tired," she told him. "I need to look at something further away for a bit."

He nodded. "Why don't you go play?"

But Sofie shook her head. "There's no one to play with, and every time I go play in the Gildergreen Square people look horrified and send me back here. Mila's the only person my age left, and her mother won't even let her leave the house."

Kodlak sighed. "I wish your mother had gone over this insane plan with me before she did it. Keeping it secret from everyone just started a panic. I think we're going to have to go get the children back sooner rather than later."

Sofie giggled, surprising him, "But imagine how much better-behaved children will be for the next few years, when the rest of Skyrim learns that nearly an entire city's worth of naughty children were stolen away and returned much better-mannered!"

He barked a laugh, reaching out to ruffle the girl's fine-stranded hair. "That's true, little Sofie. Tell you what; I need to go see Danica to get that infernal brew she insists I keep taking. Why don't you come with me?"

She nodded eagerly, closing the book and hopping down out of the chair. She didn't need to hop far; she'd been growing again. Already she was noticing some of the same problems with her clothing that Runa was. Ysmir had already had the "becoming a woman" talk with her, and she had hoped to avoid it for a few more years. Now that she was in a place dominated by men and with neither Ysmir nor Runa anywhere in sight, she doubled her prayers on that score. Ria seemed nice, but Sofie barely knew her, and Njada…she hadn't really talked to Njada. The first time she tried the woman had quite literally thrown a boot at her. She supposed she could ask Auntie Aela, but she'd never felt as at-ease with the woman as Runa did. Aela was so self-assured, and Sofie…well, she wasn't, and Aela frequently intimidated her.

The fact that she slaughtered things on a regular basis that Sofie would rather cuddle didn't help.

Walking hand-in-hand like she once had with her father, Sofie and Kodlak emerged into the brightly lit day. The empty branches of the Gildergreen waved lazily in the air, drawing her gaze, as always. This was the first time she had seen the tree in years, and it looked worse to her. Not a hint of bud, and the bark was turning grey and peeling in some places. The whispering wind through the skeletal limbs seemed to beseech her, somehow, but she wasn't sure what she could do. It was troubling.

Shading his eyes with his hand, Kodlak grinned. "One of the last really warm days of the year, I'll bet," he said. There wasn't the wistfulness some might put in the words. Kodlak was a Nord, after all, and Nords thrived in cold. Sofie wasn't so sure—after spending almost a year on the streets of Windhelm, ignored by everyone but the so-called evil Dunmer, scraping for food and dressed only in rags, she welcomed the heat of Skyrim's short summer. It was true that Windhelm had stank more, but at least she hadn't been worried about freezing to death in the night. She probably would have on the coldest of nights, had Niranye not taken pity on her and invited her just inside the back door. No further, though, for even if the Nords had no interest in her welfare, an elf taking her in would have sat ill with them. Sofie had cried when the Altmer had explained that to her, unable to comprehend why her father's former comrades would be so cruel.

At least no one had tried to send her to the Orphanage. One clandestine conversation with Aventus when he had returned had convinced her that living on the streets was much preferable.

The Temple of Kynareth was one of the most welcoming places Sofie had ever been, the peaceful atmosphere not even diminished by the wounded and ill who had come for healing. Looking around curiously, Sofie jumped when the head priestess actually came from a room behind them, just next to the door. "Kodlak. You're late," she said, her tone admonishing though her gaze on Sofie was curious. "Who's this?"

"Danica, this is Sofie Dragonsdatter. Sofie, this is Danica Pure-Spring," he said with a smile, pulling her forward a bit when she would have hidden behind him.

"Dragonsdatter?" she echoed, looking surprised. "So this is one of Ysmir's? She hardly looks old enough…of course. You're adopted, like Lucia, correct?" she asked Sofie directly, smiling a bit.

Sofie nodded shyly, not sure what to say to the competent older woman. Danica seemed to sense this, for she simply smiled reassuringly and turned her gaze back to Kodlak. "And why are you late, Kodlak Whitemane? You were supposed to pick up your doses yesterday. They only work if you keep taking them, and you're missing a day a week at this rate."

The Harbinger tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "I don't know why you fuss, woman. I'm hardly sitting around Jorrvaskr eating sweetrolls. I practice and walk around and eat fresh meat and all the other active things the younger members do. Well," he admitted when she raised an eyebrow and smirked at him, "perhaps not everything."

"Chest pains in a man your age are nothing to be cavalier about, Kodlak," she told him sternly.

As Kodlak received his weekly lecture, Sofie wandered away, embarrassed to witness an elder's censure. Someone moaned to her right, and she turned to see a blind man sitting on the floor against the wall, bandage around his eyes and the stump of his left arm. He was a bit older—perhaps even a few years Kodlak's elder—but he wore a Stormcloak gambeson. Soft sounds escaped him even as he bit his lip to keep them in, and Sofie surmised that he must be in an awful amount of pain. Glancing around unobtrusively to find someone to attend to him, she wandered on until she reached the Shrine, where she sent a quick prayer for everyone to be alright (even Babette, though she had a sneaking suspicion her undead friend wouldn't like that too well).

Passing the man on the way back to Kodlak she paused, listening. She couldn't quite hear it but something told her he was crying, like she could almost hear the wind through the leaves of the Gildergreen. No tears leaked from around his bandages, and they appeared dry and fresh…Creeping closer, she jumped as his hand came up and latched unerringly onto her own. "Please…" he whispered as shock and caution held her still, "don't leave. Alone…all alone…"

Gulping and giving another quick look around, Sofie sank down beside him, tucking her skirts around her legs as she settled herself. "It's all right," she told him, hand still held tightly in his too-thin claw, "I'm here. You're not alone. You're in the Temple of Kynareth, and there are people all around you. There are priests and priestesses, and Kynareth herself."

"I was too late," he said raggedly, "All of them…the entire house, just gone, as if it had never been. They were inside…"

"Who was inside?" she asked, getting a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Pushing it away, she patted his hand.

The Stormcloak sobbed, "Everyone. Father, Marga, little Hron…they all burnt away. I couldn't get there in time." He broke down completely, crumpled nearly in half as he sobbed quietly. Sofie hated seeing adults cry, but it had happened. The Butcher of Windhelm had made plenty of people cry, right out in the open. He'd made her cry, terrified that he knew she had seen him that one night stupid Rolff had stood outside Niranye's house shouting things and keeping her from getting to her usual safe hidey-hole.

"It's not your fault," she told him, although she had no idea if this were true or not. He didn't seem comforted by this, so she just sat with him, holding his hand and patting him on the shoulder from time to time.

After about ten minutes of this, Danica and Kodlak finally noticed that the quiet child wasn't just being quiet, she wasn't there. Embarrassed and a bit alarmed, they cast about until they spotted the girl on the other side of the temple, holding the hand of Noran Iron-Knuckle, a Nord man badly burned trying to pull his family from their house during a dragon attack. All the blood drained from Danica's face as she raced across the temple, and Kodlak felt his heart beat painfully fast at the expression on her face.

"It's alright," Sofie told him again.

"I wasn't there," he cried. "I killed them."

"No, you tried to save them," Sofie insisted, having just heard this from his own mouth. "You tried your best. Sometimes that just isn't enough, but it doesn't change the fact that you tried. You didn't stand and stare, or run away; you tried to help. You know that."

His hand clutched hers tighter. "Do…do you think they can ever forgive me?"

Sofie smiled, somehow already knowing the answer. "They never blamed you."

The man sobbed again…and abruptly dropped her hand, going slack against the wall. Sofie frowned, but then Danica was there, pulling her away, face pale. Leaning forward, she placed her fingertips to the slightly gooy wounds on his neck. Burned. He was burned all over…she hadn't seen it. She would have shrank away if she had, but she would have sworn his skin was ordinary just a moment ago. Sofie looked down at her hands, which were covered in char and fluid, feeling as if she should be ill.

"He's gone. Two days he wouldn't let himself die, and he had to wait until a child was…" Danica muttered, furious.

"Divines preserve us," Kodlak breathed, looking from the dead man to Sofie, expecting her to cry, to panic or be sick. She looked up at him, a little dazed, and held out her hands. He was almost sick himself when he saw the state they were in, and could only be glad it wasn't her injuries that put them in such a state.

"I need to wash them," she said numbly, and now Danica stared at her, too, unnerved by her seeming calm. "It's alright," she told them, "I'll…I'll…I need to wash my hands."

"Of course," Danica said, realizing the girl might be in shock. Guiding Sofie to one of the discreet pumps, she thrust the girl's hands under the stream, watching her scrub them clean in an almost detached fashion, quite worried.

Sofie pulled her hands out of the cold water, no longer able to feel them, and stared at them. "Don't be too mad at him," she told the hovering priestess. "He was afraid. He had to be forgiven."

"He didn't need to be forgiven by a child," Danica groused.

"I was the only one there," Sofie murmured. "I had to help him. I just had to."

Kodlak knelt until he was eye-level with the girl—well, a bit below her eye-level, now. "Sofie, are you alright? You seem calm, but…a man just died. Do you need to…sit?" he asked, not knowing how to handle this. He knew warriors after their first kill, though, and they were usually quite ill. How a little girl would react to someone she had just talked to dying right in front of her was a bit of a mystery to him, but he would bet more hysterics should be involved.

When she looked at him, her pupils were wide, eyes round, "Everything dies," she told him quietly. "Why should we be any different? I'm glad I was there for him. He…reminded me of my father. He was a Stormcloak, too."

Poor Kodlak looked like he'd been struck. "I'll get you back to Jorrvaskr, lass," he said, taking her hand and leading her out the door. Sofie took one step over the threshold when the all-pervasive calm shattered like glass, and she fainted.

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**Merry Christmas everyone! I know this is the least festive chapter ever, what with Aventus's heavy thoughts and gooey burn victims, but I hope you like it nonetheless. **

**I have this theory that being around greatness inspires others to be great, or that destiny rubs off, or something. So, the kids' lives are going to be more interesting just because of who their adoptive mom is. And by interesting, I mostly mean "Oh God, Oh God, we're all going to die." (No, I don't plan on killing any of them off at this juncture.)**

**As a sort of Christmas bonus, I put up the prequel to this story on DeviantArt. I'm simply calling it Dragon Kin: Beginnings, and it's mostly Ysmir (before she had that name, of course) in her journey through Helgen. I believe I've mentioned this before. It's a bit darker than this story, because Ysmir's life was in a darker place. Here's the spaced out link: **h-t-t-p colen backslash backslash fav dot me backslash d8b9m5d **Or, if you'd prefer, just google "Dragon Kin Beginnings by Evil is Relative on DeviantArt." **

**Welcome new followers and favorites! Thanks, Wynni, for the review!**

**Wynni: This is what I did to your Sofie. I hope you do not want to beat the crap out of me for giving her a hard time. It gets both better and worse, I promise. As for troll bosses-I find the game gets so boring when high-level dragons are the only real challenge. -_-' While it is nice not to get killed all the time, I tend to use crappier weapons and stuff to make things last more than two seconds. And with Odahviing...I leave hints. You'll have to find them. ;P**

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**Totally goofed. That's the week after next week. Next week Runa talks to Braith and we check in with how Darva is fairing at High Hrothgar. Sorry. **

**X** Next Week: Aventus and Runa receive a letter and get a chance to talk about things, and Aventus finds something unexpected in the kitchen.** X**


	42. Chapter 42: Better Left Unsaid

**So, um, I'm a big goofball and got the chapter order confused in the teaser. Next chapter is about Aventus's kitchen discovery. This chapter is about Runa doing some investigating and Darva putting her foot in her mouth. What a way to kick off the year!**

**I blame the chinchillas. They are too cute. My brain went mooshy. Mushy. Moo shu. There I go. Anyway, enjoy!**

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Runa gave up. She had been thinking about it for days, but she just couldn't come up with any good way to broach the subject, so, poking some floating bits of potato under the weak broth in the stewpot beside her and deciding that now was as good a time as any, she finally asked.

"So, how long have you liked Lars?"

Braith choked on the ladle of water she had been drinking, coughing and sputtering as Runa worriedly pounded on her back, wishing she had kept her mouth shut until the younger girl had returned to her task. Only, she hadn't wanted Braith to have the vegetable knife in her hands when she asked. "What?" the girl finally managed, face a few shades darker under all the dirt.

"Lars," Runa said, deciding to just go forward with it. "It took me a while to see it, because you're so mean to him. Why is that, anyway?"

Braith looked conflicted for a moment, eyes darting around the ash-darkened timbers and crumbling stonework of the kitchen before she finally shrugged, looking embarrassed but oddly relieved. "He's a Nord. Nords like strong people, right? Papa won't teach me about fighting, so I taught myself. Aren't Nords supposed to like that kind of thing?"

The older girl frowned, returning to her stewpot and breaking up a garlic clove, hating the way the papery pieces made her fingers feel odd and tacky. "There are better ways to learn to fight than to pick on those who won't fight back, you know." Braith didn't reply, and Runa looked up to see her staring down into the fire with a closed expression. "So is that why you started picking on him? So he would see you were strong?"

Braith nodded. "I want him to fight me back, or…well, he's always reading. He never noticed me. Then I got mad one day and hit him, and he finally looked at me. Only, he doesn't like to fight, and he seems to hate me more and more. I…I tried to ask Mother about it, but she's always reading too. Why is everyone always reading?" she burst out, frustrated.

"Why don't you?" Runa turned the question back, curious. "If I wanted to get someone's attention, I would talk to them about things they like. Next time you see him with a book, why don't you ask him about it?"

The Redguard girl paused, glaring down at the miserable patch of carrots she was slicing and stabbing it listlessly with the knife. "I'm no good at it."

Runa shrugged. "Practice makes perfect."

"I tried!" the girl yelled, actually stabbing the knife down into the countertop a good inch or so. "I just can't do it! I really, really tried, but Mother got frustrated with how slow I was and Danica said there was something wrong with how I see things and everyone gave up trying to help me. I'm just too stupid to read, all right!"

Jumping, Runa stared at her, eyes wide as the Redguard wiped tears from her cheeks, turning away with a sound of disgust. "Don't look at me like that," she sniffed, sounding as if she were promising violence. She probably was.

Putting down the garlic, Runa asked, "What do you mean, there's something wrong with how you see things?"

Braith shrugged. "Things get turned around, all out of order. If I can get the first letter and the length, I can guess, but…things get turned around. I know what I think it says is wrong, most of the time, but I couldn't tell you what it actually says. Everything's jumbled, upside-down or crosswise. Mother…she got tired of trying to walk me through it. I heard her tell Papa she thought I might be doing it for the attention. She doesn't understand." Scoffing a bit, she rolled her eyes, "And then Lars also has his nose in a book all the time. Just my luck."

"I can see where you'd be frustrated," Runa finally said, thoughtfully pealing a few more little thorns of garlic. Dagny was supposed to be doing this so Runa could chop them into tiny little pieces, but the girl was nowhere to be seen today. That actually suited Runa fine, since she was able to have this conversation with Braith. "That doesn't sound very fun."

"Fighting, at least, I can be good at," Braith said with her usual bravo, wrenching the knife out of the wood. "And then one day Papa will take me away, teach me how to use weapons, and I'll support both him and Mother."

"So what are you going to do about Lars?" Runa asked after a few more minutes had passed.

The sigh Braith let out was a bit heartbreaking. "I don't know. Trying to fight him has just made him—everybody really—hate me more. I just don't get it. Nords are _supposed _to like fighting. A woman in the inn said it was Nord wisdom that you don't really know a woman until you've had a strong drink and a fistfight with her. I can't drink, but I can do the other thing."

"Well, try Runa wisdom instead: Being nice to people will make them like you a whole lot more than punching them will," the Nord girl replied, trying not to grin.

"What am I supposed to do? Ask him to teach me to read?" she asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"You can't read?"

Both girls jumped and looked to the door where Nelkir and Lars stood with their arms full of wood, the soft sounds made by their simple fur shoes eclipsed by the crackling of the fire. Nelkir looked skeptical and not a little condescending; Lars simply looked astonished. The Battle-Born boy hefted his bundle and walked over, surprise overriding his past experiences of having his nose bloodied. "But Saffir reads all the time. I can't believe she wouldn't teach you."

Braith's face was slowly turning the color of Ysmir's hair. Nelkir snickered, "Oh, look. A red Redguard."

Runa glared and threw a rotting potato at him, which smashed wetly into his shoulder and earned her a glare in return. "If you don't have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut," she advised in the coldest voice any of the children had ever heard her use.

"Mother doesn't have time to teach me," Braith admitted, straightening her back. "I wasn't good at it, so she gave up." She gave Nelkir a withering look, "Not all of us have tutors that can spend as much time as needed until you get something."

"I have time," Lars said after a moment, looking at once bashful and shrewd. "Braith, if you want, I will help you learn to read—but only if you promise never to bully me again."

"She only bullied you because you wouldn't kiss her," Nelkir piped up again, smirking as he finished arranging his wood and took in their expressions.

Runa stomped out from behind the counter, grabbed the younger boy by the ear, and marched him down the hall. "What is the matter with you?" she hissed, letting him go as he moaned like a beast in pain, hand going to cover his aching ear and glaring resentfully down the hall to where Frothar and Aventus had just brought up their loads of firewood.

"Well, it's the truth!" he hissed right back, eyes bright and furious. "And don't you dare ever touch me like that again, peasant!"

The sound of the slap that followed that statement was almost lost in the clamor of Aventus's wood clattering to the floor. The youngest son of Balgruuf the Greater found himself held up against the wall by the front of his shirt, furious dark eyes glaring up at him as he reached up to touch his stinging cheek. "Don't talk to her like that," the Imperial growled, eyes glittering dangerously. "Don't ever."

"Put him down, Av—Ventis," Runa said, posture stiff. "I can fight my own battles, thank you very much."

"I know," he declared, eyes still locked with the younger boy, who was starting to sweat, "but I'm willing to do much more than just slap him."

"But then I'd have to protect him," Frothar put in gravely, "And I'd rather not fight while it could be used as an excuse to eat me, so put him down."

Aventus finally pealed his eyes from Nelkir's to peer measuringly at the heir to Whiterun. For a long moment, the boys simply stared each other down before Runa huffed, stomping past both of them and muttering to herself. Somehow, Nelkir managed a smirk. "So she does have claws," he said unwisely.

"More than you know," Aventus agreed, the dark smile that accompanied the statement wiping the smirk right off the boy's face. "You'd do well to remember that. She hasn't survived this long by being weak." Finally, he put the boy down, turning to walk after Runa in slow, measured strides. After giving his brother a withering look, Frothar hurried after him.

Aventus found Runa quite literally beating the stuffing out of the improvised practice dummy they had erected, her technique not the strong, straightforward strokes that the Papas preferred, but the short, fast movements Ysmir had taught them, including not only weapons but jabs and pushes with hands and feet, knees and elbows. Examining them in light of recent revelations, he began to think again that perhaps Ysmir had been an assassin of some sort. The Papas were right; those weren't exactly honorable moves, strictly speaking.

Honor wouldn't always keep you alive, so Ysmir had taught them anyway. Sovngarde, she told them, had a lot of drinking to pass eternity, so they sure as hell better make sure they didn't die until they were old enough to enjoy that sort of thing.

"I'm sorry."

They both turned, surprised, to see Frothar standing awkwardly on the stairs behind them. The flickering torchlight made him look almost ghoulish, casting long shadows from their dark sides, as if some eldritch darkness were growing from each of them as they shown like the moon; half in light, half disappearing into the black around them. "He didn't always…he wasn't always like this. He used to be really sweet, actually. Almost like a girl, sometimes, but…" he sighed, scratching at his head. Aventus hoped he wasn't getting lice, because they all would get it in short order. "About three years ago he met this woman locked in the basement, under house arrest or something. She knows things, lots of things. Secret things, and she told them to him. He's been bitter and angry ever since."

Exchanging a look with his sister, Aventus asked, "What sorts of things?"

If anything, Frothar looked even more uncomfortable. "Things about our father, and about the war. Things about the people in the city. He calls her the Whispering Lady, and he'd go down and talk to her at least once a week. Now he can't, so he's being mean."

"So he's being pissy because he can't talk to someone who makes him miserable anyway?" Aventus asked skeptically, lifting an eyebrow as he felt Runa stiffen at his language. Hey, he still had a persona to maintain, as did she, if that little slap hadn't ruined it.

Frothar winced, but nodded. Aventus glanced at Runa, who gave a little nod. This was definitely something to tell Ysmir about.

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* * *

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"Odahviing, what do you think stars are?"

"Holes to Aetherius, of course," the dragon replied shortly, shifting carefully so as not to dislodge her. Darva lay across his head, shoulders resting between his eyes as her legs dangled down either side of his nose. Paarthurnax seemed vastly amused by this position, giving them sidelong glances from where he reclined in the snow a few feet away. Darva didn't care; it was much warmer watching the aurora from atop Odahviing than sitting beside him in the snow, and she couldn't manage to sit anywhere else without falling off. Between the Red Dragon's body heat and the puffy Skaal coat handed down from Lucia, she was quite cozy.

_"Nii los usnutiid, Kulaas._ When the spirits learned the cost of making the world," Paarthurnax put in, "many of them decided they did not wish to pay it, and fled, ripping holes in the_ lok _that let in the light of _Lovok._ The biggest was made by Magnus, and when it is in the sky, no other _fil_ can be seen."

"Why didn't they want to stay?" Darva asked, idly tracing the edges of Odahviing's scales with a fingertip. "Didn't they like it here?"

"Perhaps they were _zofaas_ of the change it would make in them," Odahviing said pensively. _"Nust lost gefaas do fos nust uld meyz."_

_"Nust vuldak wah mii, drey nust ni?"_ Darva replied thoughtlessly, catching tightly to his horns when the Red Dragon flinched and missing the wide-eyed exchange between the dragons. Sitting up, she looked down at the dragon beneath her. "The elves call them ancestors, right? They think they're the closest to them, and humans not so close?" Truthfully, Darva had a hard time knowing what all the fuss was about between man and mer. People were people, right? Some had pointy ears and some rounded, and some had fur and some had scales.

And others, of course, were dragons.

_"Tol los folov. _That is correct," Paarthurnax confirmed after a few moments. _"Kulaas,_ when did you learn_ wah tinvaak med dovah?"_

She yawned sleepily. It was far passed her bedtime, but so far none of the Graybeards had noticed. She was warm in her fluffy Skaal coat, though, and the rumbling voices of the dragons were comforting. _"Fod vod,"_ she replied, struggling to stay awake. "My friend Bormah has been teaching me."

"Your…_'friend' bormah_?" Odahviing repeated archly, exchanging another look with Paarthurnax, this one with more than a hint of worry to it.

"He's a secret. My secret friend," she mumbled, snuggling into the cleft between his horns, "Don't tell Momma, please. You two are all right though, because _dov_ can keep secrets."

_"Kulaas,"_ Paarthurnax asked mildly, _"Dreh hi mindok fos bormah seik?"_

_"Nid,"_ she mumbled, wondering why it mattered what Bormah's name meant. _"Nii drun paakmey?"_ If his name meant something embarrassing it would explain why he hadn't told her. Once a boy from a wandering farmer's family had made fun of her for being named after a bug. At least, until Aventus and Blaise had started teasing him about being named "Ragnar."

"Never mind, Kulaas," Paarthurnax replied indulgently, craning his head on his long neck to gently pry the door open with his horn, whispering something that shook the mountain a bit.

Darva watched quietly, eyelids drooping. "You didn't Shout," she observed. "That was a _thu'um_, but you were quiet about it."

"Sometimes you don't need to Shout, little one," he said, as if he were repeating something said to him long ago, "There was once a _dovah_ whose _thu'um _was weak; not a Shout, but a whisper. A beautiful being, filled not with bitterness for her plight, but sympathy at the plights of others. She reached greatness none of us would have guessed."

The little girl smiled, thinking she had made the connection. "Briiahzidaaz," she stated with a smile, not recognizing Odahviing's movement for the flinch it was.

Paarthurnax inclined his head. "I spoke of Alessia the Dragonborn. Briiahzidaaz's _tey_ is one of _lot traas,_ of tragedy. There was no overcoming her fate once it was sealed. To be robbed of her wings so…it is not a fate I would wish on any _dovah. Ek dinok lost aaz."_

Darva frowned, surprised. "But she fell in love. That's not so sad. Surely she wouldn't want to die then."

"We _dov_ are creatures of the _lok, Kulaas._ There is no life for us without wings, no matter what might be given to replace it," the elderly _dovah_ told her gently.

"The Bards all talk of being willing to trade anything for true love," Darva told them, not feeling sleepy anymore. "So _dov_ wouldn't do that? You wouldn't give things up for love?" At this point, having ridden Odahviing and having never been in love, Darva could hardly blame them. If she had wings, she would never give them up. Bards were silly anyway.

Paarthurnax looked stricken, his head pulling back toward his body in surprise. Beneath her, Odahviing had gone very still, and she realized she had said something wrong. The old _dovah_ gazed at his tattered wings for a long moment before turning back to them. "It is late," he said, "I must return to my meditations. _Lok dein hi ney,"_ he added, taking off in a flurry of snow.

The Red Dragon lowered his head so that she could hop off onto the stairs. "I didn't mean to make him sad…or whatever," she added, gazing up contritely.

Odahviing glanced away. "We _dov_ gave up our invulnerability for _lokaal, Kulaas._ Was this not enough?"

Her eyes widened. "You're angry," she stated, feeling her heart thump.

_"Nii los bek._ I have been thinking much lately on something I thought I had accepted," he replied, reaching down to nuzzle her in apology, reassuring her that his anger wasn't directed at her. _"Hi drey nid folaas._ You are young, and the young always ask uncomfortable questions."

_"Krosis,"_ she replied, chastened.

"How will you learn if these things are not asked?" he responded, turning to go.

"Odahviing!" she called, and he paused to turn his head back to her, scales almost looking black, as if the red tints were merely from the fires around the courtyard. "I hurt your feelings, too," she stated, feeling wretched.

He closed his eyes. _"Hi los bahlaan do tovok._ You notice much for your age."

"How?" she asked, coming down into the snow to put her hand on his side, trying to give some sort of comfort. "I didn't mean anything by it."

The dragon closed his eyes. "Many of us brought back by Alduin were male. He did not bother to bring back _liin,_ nor sisters, nor daughters. Only enough to bring us the hope that he would one day return them to us."

The child's hands came up to cover her mouth as she realized where she had goofed. "He didn't bring back your _liin,_ did he?" she asked, horrified.

Looking out over the side of the mountain, the _dovah_ replied, _"Nii lost ni ko ok suleyk waan rok laan._ My _silliin_ is forever lost to me." Before she could ask why, he turned, diving off the mountain and leaving her standing, snow swirling about her as she looked back up at the aurora, feeling very lonely in the empty courtyard.

"Darva?" Arngeir called, sounding harassed. He had hoped to get some meditating done while the more rambunctious of the children was distracted by dragons. "What are you doing out here? Where did Paarthurnax go?"

The old man stared in surprise when the little girl rushed over and flung her arms around him. "Arngeir! I hurt their feelings! All the dragon girls are gone and I brought it up by accident!" she wailed, sobbing into his robes.

Crouching down and awkwardly patting her on the shoulder, he replied, _"Dovah_ live very long lives, and in that time they see many things to be sad over. They will find their peace with it again soon, and be back to see you."

"But I hurt their feelings!" she protested, looking up into his wizened face.

"In my first few years of studying with him, I once Shouted so loudly a large rock fell on his tale. Paarthurnax does not hold that against me, even though he still sports the dent in his scales. He will recover," he assured her.

"Do you promise?"

"Dragons are very durable," he assured her, ushering her inside. Honestly, Arngeir had never heard of a female _dov._ Having two female _Dovahkiin_ was more than enough trouble, as far as the old monk was concerned.

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**Well, I hope you all have had a wonderful New Year! And I hope you like the chapter! Sorry about the teaser mix-up! Oh, and what did you all think about my new cover image? Can you see it alright? Do you like it? I hope no one had trouble finding us!**

**For anyone who forgot/didn't have time/filed it away for later: I put up the prequel to this story on DeviantArt! It's called Dragon Kin: Beginnings by Evil-is-Relative. I would love you forever if you went and checked it out! Don't forget to review, even if it's only a smiley or something! There are a lot of fun emoticons on DeviantArt to express yourself with; we could pay emoticon charades!**

**Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and followed! You guys rock!**

**cerberus666: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it! (Tell your friends ;P) Welcome to the ride.**

**Guest: *Does best River Song impression* Spoilers. We do see one of those in the next...oh ten chapters or so, but I'm not telling who!**

**Wynni: Sofie always struck me as sweet and empathetic. I find it kind of ironic in hindsight that she's pretty good at Restoration, being the daughter of a Stormcloak and all. It just seemed like her natural progression to me. She's getting her own mini-arch in these next few chapters. In a world where all trolls are bosses and the Civil War questline is still incomplete, my Dragonborn remains a squishy mage who occasionally forgets she needs a tank around to draw fire. It balances.**

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**Next chapter: Er...Aventus finds something unexpected in the kitchen. ^_^;**


	43. Chapter 43: Hands

_ "Dear Aventus and Runa,_

_ This plas iz awsum! I hoap seeing a Hag Raven waz az neet az it sownds, becaz the trolls r hoog! I reelly lyk them but not cleening up after them. Ther iz a wooman heer hoo lyks Dwarf things just lyk Luseeah. U shood hav seen Lydeeah's fac when Luseeah sat down and poot 1 together, just lyk that! Shee looked lyk a landed fish! _

_O, hoap ur dooing good, and Luseeah luvs u. Shee varee sad but Shags iz dooing good._

_Luv Blaise"_

Runa and Aventus exchanged a rather chagrined look. "I think we need to work on Blaise's spelling a bit more when we all get back together," she said ruefully.

Aventus nodded, folding up the note Serana had brought them. The vampire was currently out hunting Foresworn, but had let Runa and Aventus use her room to read the letter out of sight of the other children. "At least he spelled our names right, even if he needs to work on Lucia's."

She chuckled, laying back on Serana's bed and staring at the ceiling, idling fingering her earlobes, where the tiny gold studs still shone dully in the light. Aventus watched her a moment and sighed, thinking back to how she had gotten them. If Babette had wanted to poison them all, one by one, giving no idea how it had happened, she could easily have pricked a dipped needle through his sister's ear that day, rather than a sterile one.

The girl intercepted his gaze. "You miss her, huh?" she surmised, sympathetic expression on her face.

He sighed. "Yeah. Or, at least, I miss what I thought she was. I really thought she liked me, Runa."

"Maybe she did," Runa stated, surprising him, "but that didn't change the fact that she had a job to do." Tilting her head a little, she asked, "Do you still want to become an assassin? I haven't heard you say it since you came back to the Orphanage, but…"

"Killing people like Grelod is doing this world a service," he said vehemently, and her eyes widened. "Other people, though? I don't know if I could kill someone for snubbing someone socially, or because someone wants their inheritance sooner. I know I don't want to, and maybe I could if I had to, but for pay? I don't think I could do it." He risked a look and found her smiling at him. "What?"

"I'm glad to hear you say that," she stated simply, sitting back up. "Care to become a Companion?" she added, elbowing him lightly. "We could be Companions Aventus and Runa, children of the Dragonborn and scourge of…of things that need scourging!"

He laughed, "Would I have to be a werewolf? I like my sleep."

"Nah. I'll be lupine enough for both of us," she assured him, not offended at all.

A wicked grin crossed his face, "How are you going to be Lady of Dragonsreach if you're a werewolf?" he teased, and at her confused look, laughed. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed that giant knucklehead staring at you. If he looked any harder your hair would catch on fire!"

Runa gaped at him, jaw working but no actual words coming out for a full two breaths. "That's ridiculous! Frothar barely talks to me, and when he does, it's usually to ask how to do something."

Her brother summoned a look of deep shock, "He actually asks you how to do stuff? He hasn't stopped scowling at me!"

"Because you're the Bad Guard," she reminded him, poking a finger into his chest, "and Bad Guards aren't liked!"

"No one likes me anyway," he said, putting on as mopey an air as he could. This had the desired effect of exasperating his sister, her guard down completely as she rolled her eyes, and he darted forward to tickle her sides as she shrieked and swatted at him. She hated people knowing, but Runa was horribly ticklish. "If I ever meet a werewolf, first thing I'm going to do is tickle it," he said over her laughter, "that way if it laughs, I know it's you!"

"You beast!" she managed, convulsed with laughter.

"Not now, not ever," he assured her, relenting. "You on the other hand…"

"Not so much noise," Melka interrupted from the door, not looking pleased. "Other children think I kill you. Downstairs. Tell them I kill rabbits. Rabbits shriek like girl."

Runa managed a smile, "Sorry, Melka. We didn't mean to disturb you."

The Hag nodded, shuffling out of the room. "You go first," Aventus told her, not wanting to have to go back to being "mean ol' Ventis" quite yet.

"All right," she replied, standing and smoothing out her dress with a little grimace. "Illia bought a deer haunch off a wandering hunter this morning. If I can get the other girl's to cooperate, I think I'll arrange a roast tonight that needs to cook all night and day so tomorrow we can all get a wash in the laundry room." She flushed slightly, "That is, if you can make sure the boys stay away?"

"Kettle is certainly big enough," Aventus agreed, mouth already watering at the prospect. They hadn't had just solid meat for more than a week. Apparently things tended to spoil quicker around a Hagraven. "Don't worry about the boys; Frothar and Nelkir probably won't want to risk seeing Dagny, and Lars looked like he was about to get a nosebleed just from hugging you." At her annoyed, questioning look, he indicated the level where Lars's face would be when Runa hugged him, grinning again as her face turned bright red. "It's a good thing he's the polite one, or I might have gone all protective big brother on him."

"You're younger than me," she pointed out, hands on her hips.

He shrugged, "Doesn't matter. I still have to protect my sister's virtue from salivating adolescent boys."

Runa rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were still pink as she crept from the room. Aventus went to the window, watching the last of the sunset disappearing in the west. The days shortened so fast this time of year; it was only just past supper. After he judged enough time had passed, he headed downstairs, pausing at the door to the kitchen. Someone was in there. That wasn't right—they had had their supper, and all the chores for the day had been completed before Aventus and Runa had run off. By now most of the children had taken to gathering in the large, open entry hall, where they practiced fighting or just complained about the day. Lately, it had involved Lars telling a story he had learned from this or that book, as well, which seemed to do wonders for his confidence.

Slowly, feeling the way step by careful step through the thin soles of his fur shoes, Aventus moved into the kitchen, halting in annoyance. Dagny. Hadn't the girl had enough to eat at supper? About to say something, he frowned, reexamining the situation. Dagny wasn't near the food. She was, in fact, near the water pump. Trying to get a wash? But she wasn't pumping anything, she was sort of hunched over, and she seemed to be…He sighed, and she jerked upwards like he had poked her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, wondering if he should just leave her here to sulk.

"N-nothing," she sniffed, shooting him a glare over her shoulder. Aventus felt his eyebrows shoot up at her sooty, tear-smudged face. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I thought one of you newbies had tried to sneak into the pantry again," he said honestly, crossing his arms and striding towards her. It had been Nelkir before, but he wouldn't put it past Dagny, given how little she had actually been eating.

"I'm not hungry," she murmured. "I just…I can't get the pump to work."

"Why do you want to use the pump?" he asked, making his tone as scathing as possible and cringing a little inside when she flinched. "You have to boil the pump water, and I can't see Your Highness boiling water without the threat of imminent destruction urging you on."

"Never mind," she grumbled, turning away when something about her posture caught his eye, and he reached out and grabbed her wrists, making her yelp. She struggled a moment as he yanked her hands down from their curled-up position against her chest, but his stern look quelled that. "When did this happen?" he asked, taking in the bloodied, sore state of her hands.

Dagny shrugged and looked away, and he shook her arms, making her wince. "It started the day we came here, and it's just gotten worse," she finally said, ending on a sob.

Aventus sighed. Of course it had. They should have anticipated this. Nelkir and Frothar had weapon's practice, but Dagny had never lifted a weapon or done a day's work in her life. Of course she was going to get blisters, and of course they were going to burst with almost two weeks of constant labor and no respite. The enchantment on her dress was probably the only thing that kept them from festering in this environment. Had she not had it, she would probably be well on her way to losing her hands. It was good that he had caught wind of this before Runa could pull off her bath scheme; the moment they weren't protected by that enchantment, infection would have likely taken hold.

"Hold on," he told her, and she stared at him like he had spontaneously grown a second head as he guided her to a stool and returned to the pump. The handle had blood on it. She had tried to work it before he came in—it was probably what got her crying. Grabbing a clean pot from where it hung on the wall, he filled it with water, peering in to make sure it was clear before putting it near the fire and stoking it back up enough to boil it. "You should have said something to somebody," he scolded her lightly.

"What do you care?" she shot back, real outrage in her voice. "You don't care about anybody but yourself and Runa! You said it yourself—the Hag is going to just eat us anyway!"

"Perhaps," he said after a moment of feeling really guilty, "but that doesn't mean I want to watch your hands fall off with gangrene."

He didn't even have to look to know she blanched. He could practically feel it through the air. "Listen, Princess, I know you've been stuck in a tower all your life, but I've seen people return from battle with wounds that never got treated. A lot of them lost limbs from stupid stuff, like not keeping their cuts clean or refusing to see a healer because they thought magic was evil. None of it was pretty, and most of it could have been prevented. I saw a man live after having a sword shoved through his chest, while another died because he refused to have a Dark Elf clean a sore on his foot." He turned back to give her an admonishing look. "Don't add yourself to my litany of dumb deaths."

Dagny blinked, looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time. "I…I don't know what to do," she admitted. "I was just hoping the cold water would feel good."

Aventus sighed as if he found her intolerably stupid—which he did, on occasion, but she was no worse than some of the Stormcloaks he was telling her about. "I know what I'm doing. I'll help you, Princess, but just this once, so pay attention, aye?"

Dagny nodded so emphatically she almost fell of the rickety stool, and he repressed a smile. A watched pot never boils, so he went to the closet where food was kept and dug out some honeycomb and blue mountain flower, putting both in a bowl before heading back to the fire. The pot was just starting to boil, so he waited a few moments, fetching a small tankard as the honey dripped from the comb into the bowl. Finally, he dipped a bit of boiling water in with the honey, just enough to moisten it, and started crushing the blue petals into the mixture.

"What are you doing?" Dagny asked curiously.

"Making ointment," he replied shortly, thinking back to when Babette had shown the girls how to make a similar ointment using blue mountain flowers and wheat. He preferred his recipe, actually, and after showing it to her, she agreed. The honey was more soothing to skin than the prickly wheat was, and the honey made a better paste. "Here," he said, popping the rest of the honeycomb in her mouth when she opened it to ask another question, "keep quiet and suck on that for a while. No point in wasting it." He repressed a chuckle at the look on her face; half affronted and the other half melting in bliss at the first sweet thing she'd had the past two weeks that hadn't been a dried apple.

"Blue mountain flowers and honey are both good for healing," he told her, letting the bowl sit for a moment as he went and added some clean rags to the pot, tearing them into strips. The freshest ones he set aside. "Swamp fungal pod works, too, but I doubt you'd like how it smells, even if we had any," he chuckled at her as she wrinkled her nose, and her eyes widened again. Well, he doubted anyone had ever given her an Alchemy lesson before. "If you know how to use an Alchemy lab, you can use them to make health potions, but since all we have is Melka's lab, I think we'll just make do with the ointment." Not that Melka would mind too much, he reflected as he watched her nod vigorously, but he hated to think what other things were made with that set of alembics. "Now, come down here next to the fire," he ordered, and she stiffened for a moment before finally relenting and joining him on the floor.

Holding one hand out, Dagny hissed as Aventus slowly began cleaning them with the only slightly cooled, sterile water, gently prodding at the hideous blisters and cleaning as much dirt out of them as he could. When he finally got the first hand clean, Dagny risked a look and started crying again. "What now?" he sighed.

"I'm a lady!" she sobbed.

"And?" he asked, exasperated all over again. She'd sat stoically all through the cleaning (which had actually impressed him) and now she was crying at…what?

"This is not how a lady's hands are supposed to look!" she wailed. "A lady's hands are supposed to be soft. They're graceful and lovely and I'll never have hands like that!" Aventus examined the hand again. The skin was scraped all across her knuckles, the nails jagged and broken, and the undersides were more ruptured blister than skin. She was right. Her hands might never return to the pristine state they had been in when she arrived. "What are people going to think when they see my hands?"

"That you got out and actually did something?" Aventus cut off her imminent tirade. "Where were you planning on finding a husband: Cyrodiil? Last I checked, even the female Jarls had sword calluses. They're Nords; they boast about them."

"Queen Elisif doesn't!"

"No wonder she's having trouble keeping her country together," he remarked, shocking her into silence as he spread the ointment liberally over her hands. "You're a Nord, Dagny; embrace your battle scars."

The poor thing looked horrified, "It's going to scar?" she whispered, honest tears pricking her eyes.

Aventus cursed, clearly insulting her again. He was going to have to curb his tongue a bit more—while it might be in character, going home in the habit of cursing this much would get him spanked twice as much as Blaise. "Alright, I'll do one more thing, but don't tell," he muttered, holding her hand carefully between his as she watched curiously. "I'm not very good at this," he warned as his hands began glowing with a faint gold light. It stopped almost as soon as it began, but already the worst of the blisters had closed, and nothing was seeping fluid anymore.

Dagny continued to gape at him as he carefully wrapped each finger, then her hand, in the strips of cloth. In fact, she was blessedly silent all the way through the other hand, when his puny little amount of magicka had replenished and he repeated the process on it before wrapping that up, too. "Thank you," she finally managed.

"You're welcome," he said gruffly, rising and dumping the pot down the drain in the middle of the floor. "You'll probably need some help changing those—and they'll need to be changed about twice a day. Boil the ones you remove for about half an hour, then hang them up to dry. Don't let them get dirty. You remember how I made the ointment?" he asked as he raked ashes back over the coals.

She nodded, "One part each honey, blue mountain flower, and boiling water."

"Good. You probably should avoid chores that immerse your hands in water for a few days, too. Show them to Runa; she'll find work for you around them." He paused again, finding her wide-eyed stare unsettling. "Will you quit staring at me already? I didn't turn into a troll."

"No, you turned back from one," she replied, and he laughed before he could stop himself, shaking his head.

"There's hope for you yet, Dagny," he said, heading out the door.

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**So, originally I had an entire paragraph about how it's hard to believe this chapter is almost three thousand words long, and about how cute my chinchillas look, bouncing off the walls of my living room for the past two hours, but then one of them ran across my keyboard and erased everything, so I shall]0[==vpxhu5efffffffffffc See what I mean? Anyway: Chinchillas cute and hyper; turtles asleep; giant pleco fish sacked out on tank decoration like passed out drunk. Summation complete. In addendum, my art book is also starting to look a little nibbled around the edges.**

**Wynni: For some reason, every time I read your review my brain processed it as "I hope it's Braith and Lars kissing on my table." I was very confused and had to read it again before I realized what you actually said. Anyway, on your table or not, no Braith and Lars blossoms of romance in this chapter. Hope you liked it anyway.**

**Nargus: Well it would certainly make the dragons happy, if not the general population. I feel like such a jerk for doing that to Odahviing and company, but I've done worse to characters.**

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**Next Week: Sofie misbehaves for pretty much the first time, ever, and runs into one of my favorite people. Back in Falkreath, Siddgeir learns that not everyone agrees with his choice of bride(s), and calls in an old favor for help finding the Dragonborn.**


	44. Chapter 44: Aedra and Daedra

Sofie sighed, staring up into the boughs of the Gildergreen. She was bored, and she missed her family, and the house. The Papas were off with Mother, and Aela and Argis had departed only a few days after they had returned from High Hrothgar, and now Kodlak was gone, too. She had walked in on him packing that morning, saying something urgent had come up and he needed to see a mage in Falkreath. Of course she had wanted to go with him, but he'd refused, saying this was something he needed to do alone. Tilma was far too busy cleaning up the mead hall and bedrooms of the Companions to be much company, and even though Danica let her help out in the temple, Sofie suspected she put the woman on edge. Not Sofie personally, of course (though the woman had been rather surprised at how skilled she was at Restoration magic at her young age), but having a child in a sickroom seemed to be fairly distracting for the healers, even if she had become a favorite among the patients.

Sofie really liked the Temple, despite what had happened there that first day. She felt rather drawn to the place, actually, and took to spending most of her time there, just listening to the patients and doing what little Restoration magic Danica allowed under the watchful gaze of one of the other healers. She'd caught some of them whispering about her the day before, clumped in a group near where she had laid down on a bench to rest and restore her magicka. When Danica had heard what they were saying she had some rather stern words with them, but she had dragged them away from the girl before she said them.

She still didn't know what a "Sybil" was, or how it related to her, but she didn't really want to ask Danica, seeing as the priestess had slapped the healer who said it, hissing that Kynareth didn't have a "Sybil."

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Danica said, sinking down onto the bench beside her. There was a spot of dried blood on the sleeve of her robe, but her hands were scrupulously clean, as always, if slightly red from scrubbing.

"What's a shame?" Sofie asked.

"The Gildergreen," the priestess elaborated, nodding toward the tree. "Stories say it was planted as a seedling in the early years of Whiterun. Disciples of Kynareth could sense something holy in it, and traveled far to hear the winds of the goddess in its branches. They built the temple. Of course, there are not as many pilgrims these days. No one wants to worship at a dead tree."

"It's not dead," Sofie argued, sitting up.

Danica looked at her oddly. "It hasn't bloomed in nearly a decade, not since that lightning strike hit it. You might be right, though. They say these things never truly die, only slumber."

The little girl was quiet for a moment, hand resting on the tree. "Is there any way to revive it?"

"Well…" Danica hesitated, then shrugged. "The Gildergreen was originally a cutting from a much older tree, the Eldergleam. It's the oldest living thing in Skyrim, maybe even all of Tamriel. The sap is precious. It can restore barren fields or bring life to rocks. I think if we had some of the sap from the parent tree, we could wake up its child." She too put a hand on the tree, and she did feel something…a kind of rush beneath her skin. Strange that the girl could feel it too, but some were more sensitive to these things than others.

Sofie nodded, "Alright. Do you want to go get some?"

Danica pulled her hand away from the tree, a bit exasperated. "Now? Child, I have a temple full of war- and dragon-wounded! I can't leave!"

"All right. Where is it—I can ask one of the Companions to go," she announced, brightening.

But the priestess only laughed a bit. "Companions cost money to hire, child. One of these days I will go to Eastmarch and find the cave sanctuary of the Eldergleam, but it will not be until this war is over and I can be spared from the temple." She shook her head, "Even then, I have to find a way to tap the tree without…well, it won't be for a while," she finished, standing and smiling down at Sofie. "Well, child, it's getting to be lunch time. Why don't you go back to Jorrvaskr and get yourself something to eat?"

Sofie watched her leave, feeling very put out. Looking back through the leafless branches, she tried to think on them, but she was too distracted by the man bellowing about how wonderful Talos was. Her father had worshiped Talos, but Sofie knew a Dragonborn better than he would probably ever know Talos—unless they were both in that Sovngarde place—and she was quite sure being Dragonborn didn't make you a god. If it did, Ysmir would never have to wheedle them into taking their medicine, or stink after a day's work, or…well, a lot of human things Ysmir did. Gods didn't need to clip their toenails, she thought. Still…

Heimskr paused when he saw the small girl approaching, looking rather timid. ""The truth, child of Talos, is that the Dragon's children have come! To purge the world in fire and righteousness!" he told her.

She nodded politely. "I'm sure they're doing a great job," she said—Ysmir was always very polite, she'd noticed—"but I was wondering about you."

The priest of Talos stopped, arms dropping to his side as he merely looked at her for a moment. "What about me?" he asked, just a hint of suspicion clouding his tone.

"What made you decide to stand up here every day, yelling at the top of your lungs?" she persisted, waving her arms a bit in imitation of his wilder movements.

"Why, Talos, of course," he replied, confused.

Sofie wrung her hands a bit, "So…he asked you personally? Or was it more of a…a feeling? Like you had something to do and you knew just what it was and that everything would be alright once you got started?"

The Nord man blinked at her. "Yes," he finally answered. "It was much like that. I knew what I needed to do, and now I do it. It is my life to preach the might of Talos."

"Oh, all right then," she smiled at him brightly. "Thank you for talking to me."

Heimskr nodded with as much dignity as he could muster and resumed his sermon as Sofie scampered away. She knew what she had to do now, even if it might be scary, and even if it would probably get her in trouble. Since the day she had first seen the tree, it had hovered in her mind. Every time she'd heard a little pained cry on the wind that brought her to one of her animal friends that needed healing, she'd seen it. Now she was finally going to do something about it, and it felt right.

No one in Jorrvaskr really noticed when she walked outside, a few spare undergowns and an overtunic in a flower basket, along with some food and a jug of milk. The guards did ask what she was doing, but when she smiled and told them she was going to pick some flowers they seemed to believe her. The man with the cart turned her down when she asked to ride to Eastmarch, saying she didn't have enough money, but it was only a minor setback.

The wolf that chased her for what seemed like forever was a bit more disturbing. So was the bandit that decided she didn't have anything useful, took her cheese wedge and let her go. The thief seemed to feel bad when she started crying and even gave her back her two septims, but by then Sofie wasn't nearly so sure of herself and wished she had just stayed in Jorrvaskr.

Sofie stopped by the side of a really tall hill, pausing to rest and dry her eyes, wishing she had brought a spare pair of shoes. It was getting late, and had long since been dark, but she had thought if she just walked as far as she could she would get there. There had been an apple tree a few hours back, and she pulled out one of them to munch on, wishing she'd gotten over her feelings of unease at taking a bedroll. It might have been thievery, but she would have given it back and had some place to sleep tonight.

"This one wonders what the little girl is doing out so late."

With a little shriek, Sofie tumbled off her rock and turned to look at the man who had walked up behind her so quietly. It was a Khajiit, she saw, wearing monk robes. His ears were held flat to his skull as he looked at her. "Sorry," she said shyly, straightening. "You startled me."

"It was not this one's intent to frighten," he said, ears coming back up. "What is the little one doing out so late?"

Sofie shrugged and offered him an apple, which he took with a nod of thanks, joining her on the rock. "I think Kynareth is trying to tell me something," she confided, since he was wearing priestly garments.

"Is that so?" he asked, taking a bite of apple.

She nodded, "Are you out here for similar reasons?" she asked hopefully.

He shrugged dismissively. "M'aiq is very practical. He has no need for mysticism."

"But…you're wearing…oh, well," she said. Honestly, she probably would have been reluctant to talk to him if he hadn't been wearing priestly garb, but he seemed friendly, and she had never come to harm around a Khajiit. "You do not look like you have a lot with you…is there a town nearby?"

"No," he said, tossing his apple core away. "Is why M'aiq wondered about wandering girl. Little girl alone seems like bad idea to M'aiq."

"It's starting to seem like a bad idea to Sofie, too," she said softly, imitating his accent. Uncle Inigo didn't have it, even though he too was a Khajiit, but she thought that was probably because he wasn't born in the Khajiit country—Else Where, or Other Place, or whatever it was called. "I thought I could do this," she added, whimpering a bit. "Aventus went all the way from Riften to Windhelm by himself and he was way younger than I am!" she burst out, beginning to get mad at herself. "Only," she deflated, resting her chin on her hands as she looked out over the star-lit landscape, "Aventus is really smart. He probably found a way to hitch a ride. Alesan could probably do it, too; he's really strong. I'm just good at sewing, and you don't have to be strong or smart for that."

"It does not matter to M'aiq how strong or smart one is. It only matters what one can do," the Khajiit said softly, feeling a bit bad for the shy girl. He patted her on the head, lightly. "This one is going to walk a few more miles when the moons come out. Sofie is welcome to join him."

The smile she gave him eclipsed the light of the stars. "I'd love to!"

.

* * *

_._

_"Where is she?"_ Siddgeir bellowed, throwing a platter at his housecarl. Helvard stepped aside in time to avoid a collision, but had to bat an apple away with his gauntlet.

"My lord, the Dragonborn probably needs time to think on your proposal," Nenya tried soothing him, which only managed to make him angrier. That yellow elf wanted to _sooth_ him? Did she think him a child?

"Time? _Time?_ How much time do you need to make such a decision? It should be obvious! I'm a jarl, for Divines' sake! What is there to think about?" he threw himself into his chair, staring broodingly at the mess of his breakfast. Normally, there would be at least two serving wenches scurrying to tidy it all up, but Helvard had sent them from the room when he brought news that Lakeview Manor was emptied, down to the chickens from their nests.

"The Dragonborn is not a normal woman," Helvard said sternly, catching his attention. "She is a hero, and becoming a lady would restrict her movements. If I had to wager, it is this that she needs to decide."

"I gave her an alternative," he hissed, then forced himself to calm down when he saw the surprise on their faces. "Don't look at me like that; a betrothal is as good as a marriage, and it wouldn't be too many years until the chit was grown." Years to train her to be the perfect lady—quiet, winsome, and utterly dependent on her lord for all her needs. Most of his countrymen actually seemed to _like_ their women able to fend for themselves. Not him. He wanted what Torygg had found in Elisif; a perfect little maidenly wife that hung on his every word…He would probably need to send her away to Cyrodiil or High Rock for that kind of training. That is if Ysmir didn't just decide to marry him. She still looked relatively young and fresh, especially for someone in her line of work, but she was just a bit too assertive for his tastes. Given her reluctance to marry any of the lovers he'd found during his little investigation of her he'd expected her to jump on the chance to wed off her pretty little brat rather than be faced with it herself. He certainly hadn't expected her to disappear, brats and all!

"Thane Ysmir is very protective of her children," Nenya told him, not able to completely hide the disapproval in her voice. He glowered at her but it was clear she would speak her mind. She'd been doing that more and more often of late. He might have to do something about it. "I think you may have pushed her too far on this one, Jarl Siddgeir. Now what will we do if a dragon attacks?"

"The same thing we did before she appeared!" he snapped, "Only this time there's no bloody great black dragon to fly up and resurrect what we just killed!"

His housecarl had the audacity to glare at him. "You may have dug yourself a deeper hole than you can climb out of this time," he warned Siddgeir, who noticed that the man failed to give him his proper title. "Extorting money from bandits was one thing, but you've managed to insult one of the most influential citizens of Skyrim! She has the ear of the Greybeards, and Jarl Elisif considers her a personal friend."

"What's your point, Helvard?" Siddgeir growled, wondering just when he had learned about his side deals. No wonder he had been so insufferable lately.

"Do not push her any further, my Jarl," Helvard begged. "The one thing every hunter fears is a mother protecting her young—I'd hate to see what a dragon mother would do when her brood is threatened. It's my job to protect you, but I'm not sure the Imperial Legion itself could save you from that."

"Get out," Siddgeir muttered, looking away from Helvard's earnest gaze. When Steward and Housecarl merely exchanged glances, he rose to his feet once more, throwing his chair at them. _"Get out!"_

The chair hit Nenya before she could duck, knocking her down and leaving her gasping on the floor. Siddgeir watched her for a moment as she groaned, hand going to the cut on her head in shock. For that moment, he imagined the Dragonborn brought low, cowering at his feet. The thought made him smile and he didn't bother to hide it.

Helvard took one look at his face and scooped the Altmer up, carrying her outside and shutting the door behind them.

Useless. They were utterly useless, just like they had been before. There was only one person who would help him now, though he shuddered a little at the thought of summoning a Daedra inside his own longhouse.

The first time Hermaeus Mora appeared to him was when he was barely thirteen years old. He had been spying on that Lavinia girl playing in the water by the mill, and the girl had spotted him, threatening to tell his father what he'd been up to. He'd panicked, hitting her with a piece of wood until she stopped moving. He could have been rid of her then, but he hadn't been able to strike that final blow, and had merely tied her up and hidden her behind the logs at the mill. He'd spent the rest of the day hiding in his room, shivering and terrified. When _he_ appeared, the Daedra had filled his room, staring at him with dozens of round, bulbous eyes that saw every part of him, promising to help him if Siddgeir assisted him in return.

Of course he would help. Anything to make the problem go away.

There was a tome buried with his great-grandfather, triply blessed by Arkay for the express purpose of keeping him out. It had needed one of the man's bloodline to get it, and Siddgeir was all too eager to assist. He'd retrieved the book immediately, sneaking down and praying that there were no draugr in the family tomb, but all had gone well. As it turned out, Mora had the perfect solution to the girl: By a stroke of luck there had been a werewolf hiding in his hold, and Siddgeir prided himself for getting rid of that monstrosity as well as his own problems. He'd not been able to resist calling the alarm himself, playing the heartbroken suitor to the poor young maid. He'd been cossetted and given a quiet lecture on how mill girls, no matter how pretty, weren't suitable wives for the nephew of a jarl.

The Wretched Abys had been amused at his actions, and since he had helped the Daedra snub Hircine by locking up a werewolf, the Prince offered him two more small favors in the future in exchange for rare volumes. Siddgeir had no idea what he had done that had amused the Daedric Prince so much, or if the creature just appreciated that he was born better than most, but he didn't question his good fortune. The first favor had come when he was in his early twenties; to get rid of his uncle and become jarl. He had expected the old fool to die, of course, but the outcome was still in his favor.

Now he needed to find his future wife—whichever she may be. It was finally time to collect the last favor. Gathering what he needed, Siddgeir summoned the Daedric Prince of Fate, expecting the myriad eyes and tentacles to bloom outward like the unfurling of a spider from a hole as he knelt on the floor of his room, surrounded by blood and ink, ruined book before him. When the Wretched Abys appeared, a gaping hole to the Void with the vaguest shadow of a man behind it, he was startled. "Hermaeus Mora?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes, what it is?" the voice asked impatiently, sounding just as deep but wildly different than he remembered.

"I…I want to collect on my final favor," Siddgeir stated, trying to hide his uncertainty. Was this truly Mora? No one would dare impersonate a Daedric Prince, so it must be…

There was a pause, as if Mora were having trouble remembering him. "You know," the Jarl prodded, "the third favor for retrieving that book from my family crypt? First you helped me eradicate that girl by leading the werewolf to her, then you helped make me jarl?"

"Yes, fine," the Abys said, sounding somewhat put-upon. "What is it you want?"

"I've…I've been having some problems in my Hold," he began, sounding petulant even to his own ears. "I thought if I could marry someone respected enough public opinion would turn back towards me." No response from the Abys, so he went on more confidently. "Marrying Nenya probably would have done it, but she's so old! She's probably older than my grandfather, and she treats me like a child!"

"I can't imagine why," the Abys said dryly, and there was the amusement he was accustomed to, even if the voice had changed slightly. Oh, well. Daedric Princes could appear however they wanted; who was to say they couldn't sound however they wanted, as well?

"There aren't that many woman on my level, however," Siddgeir revealed. "There are other Jarls, but they have their own Holds to manage—"

"Just say what you mean, boy," the Abys cut him off scathingly. "You don't want a woman that can stand up to you, and you couldn't find one submissive enough without marrying 'beneath' you."

Siddgeir gritted his teeth, glaring at the blackness swirling before him. "I knew some would say that," he stated, "So I asked the Dragonborn."

There was a long pause before the Abys erupted with laughter. The Jarl stared at it, shocked. Mora had shown amusement before, and once he had heard something like a low chuckle, but this was a bit much. "You?" the Abys asked, his tone so insulting Siddgeir leapt to his feet, fists clenched. "What did she do? I must know, for she certainly wouldn't say yes!"

"I didn't expect her to," Siddgeir cried, ears burning with humiliation. "According to my information broker, she's had no less than a dozen men propose marriage at some point, and she turned them all down. So I gave her an alternative."

"Which was?" the voice asked, sounding as if he found this information valuable somehow.

"She could go her own way if she betrothed her daughter to me," Siddgeir revealed, feeling rather proud of his plan.

The Void swirled, paused, and reversed before the voice answered. "What?" it asked, tone so cold his skin erupted into goosebumps.

"Her cat servant was running around town with two of her collection of children," Siddgeir explained, starting to sweat despite the chill he felt. "I gave the bitch an ultimatum; marry me or marry her daughter off to me."

"I see," the Abys rumbled, still in that same chilling tone. "And what would you have me do about it?"

"They disappeared," Siddgeir groused, sitting back down and crossing his arms. "All of them. Only things left are the bees in the apiary. And for the life of me I can't find where they went."

"So you wish me to tell you so that you may go wed the unfortunate child?" the Abys asked. "A girl you only want so that you can mold her into your idea of a perfect wife, rather than sending for one of those brainless court ladies yourself?"

"I want a Nord," Siddgeir confirmed, nodding as he remembered the girl, long blond hair streaming behind her as she chased an even younger girl. If nothing went drastically wrong with her development, she would be a beauty one day in Siddgeir's opinion. "I know the girl wants to become some kind of warrior; those schools will take that notion right out of her head."

"And you get to see the Dragonborn's face every time she sees what you had her turned into?" the Abys asked, as if reading his mind.

Siddgeir smiled. "That was the idea," he agreed. It was so nice to have someone competent who understood him. "Not for long, of course. I overheard one of the guards who visited her house mention a Talos shrine in the basement. I think the Ambassador would put a high price on such information. The Thalmor would love to take Ysmir out, and this would be the perfect, legal opportunity to either do so, or have her publicly renounce Talos. It would do wonders for their cause. Personally I think they'll just do away with her. She's been something of a thorn in their side, and even a hero can't go around breaking laws." Was it his imagination, or did the Abys swirl just a bit faster? He shrugged. "So do we have a deal? I know a little thing like this is nothing to you, and I've purchased quite a few rare volumes since the last time I summoned you; I know your price."

"Indeed," the voice rumbled. "Very well," it continued after a pause, "The Dragonborn is in Hjaalmarch, within sight of the Blue Palace but not within the city. I trust that will suffice?"

Windstad Manor, probably, he thought, remembering the notes he had bought at such dear price from the Thieves Guild. Strangely enough, he'd had to go through a less savory member of that organization—as if thieves weren't unsavory enough. Their leader had apparently thrown his man into the Warrens when he'd asked for the information: It had taken him days to wander out. Finding the thief willing to get the information at three times the proposed price had actually seemed like a stroke of luck at the time. Siddgeir had had the man flogged for his idiocy. "That will do very nicely. Now," he said with satisfaction, getting to his feet and going to the pile of expensive books he had prepared. "Which of these would you like? Or all of them, perhaps?"

"I'll take no trinket of yours," the voice said, sounding quite near. Siddgeir whirled, dropping the books as the Abys faded around a masked figure, striding toward him across the room. "The price of your folly is quite a bit higher than that."

Siddgeir's vision blurred, the edges darkening and only getting worse as he tried to blink it away. His ears popped and his nose began to run until he choked, doubling over as he retched helplessly. The bile that coated his hands as he tried to hold it back was black.

Black as the Abys. Black as ink.

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**Hello everyone! Wooh, that was one interesting chapter to write. I hoped you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it!**

**Once again I am posting from the living room as my chinchillas run about, and once again they've run across the keyboard. They mostly desisted after one of them hopped over my shielding hands and landed in my tea mug. That was interesting for everyone involved. Luckily my tea wasn't too hot anymore. ... I just had to pause because one of them decided to try to jump to the top of the fish tank-and made it. So I had to pull a glass divider out of the tank, luckily I did not need to pull a _chinchilla_ out of the tank, because she somehow managed to Jesus-hop her way out of there, and now her tail is sopping wet. She looks miserable. I wish I could post pictures. As for my fish-they just kept swimming.**

**And she just tried it again. Wtf?**

**THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed this week! You all make this so worth it. It's so nice to share my stories with other people, for a change.**

**Wynni: Why yes, yes we are. Here you go! :P Aventus has always been a favorite of mine, but he really worked it to new heights with this story. I adore that kid.**

**bleachcreep21: On chpt 36: Lions and tigers and bears? On 43: Thank you. ^_^ **

**Vergil1989 the Crossover King: Since I'm sure you'll get to this before long if you keep reading as you have been. Thank you for all the reviews! I was very startled to see them piling up so fast. I don't have HBO, so I haven't really seen GoT, but if I ever find a way to do so without paying and arm and a leg and crying my eyes out, then I'll check it out. On chpt 11: Yeah, writing Esbern like that depressed me, but it also broke my heart a little when I went to him in-game and he basically stonewalled me the same way. Losing Delphine I could handle; losing Esbern was a slap in the face. On 14 and 18: Thanks. :D On 30: He was one of my favorites too. On 36: Bonus points for calling Siddgeir a sleezball. On 38: Super Hagraven, lol. Well, as you can see, no one has gotten eaten yet. That's what Illia is there to prevent, should Melka get tempted.**

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**Since I started writing this author's note, one of my chins has stolen my mail and dragged it under the TV stand to devour. I sincerely hope government letters don't have the same effect on her digestion as they do on mine. **

**She's also tried to jump in the tank again. -_-' ...**

**Next Week: Ysmir and the twins are paid a visit at Windstad manor, and Ysmir has some explaining to do. **


	45. Chapter 45: The Price of Knowledge

Ysmir examined the dead draugr at her feet with idle curiosity. Valdimar had complained of them briefly in his correspondence, but seeing one dead at her doorstep when she got to Windstad was still a bit of a surprise. The housecarl had sheepishly admitted that the problem was worse than he'd let on, and that he'd been fighting off two or three undead a week for a while now, but he hadn't wanted to bother her with it.

"At least is isn't vampires, anymore," he had added, patting Bandit, a stray dog he had picked up after it had run some actual bandits off one day. The canine was getting old, the fur around his muzzle and paws turning grey, but he panted happily and snuggled into the man's hand like a puppy. "Draugr I can handle, but vampires scare the pants right off me."

"You're not wearing pants, Vald," she'd replied, amused. As usual, the housecarl was in his scaled armor, mace at his side.

He'd looked startled, then grinned. "Perhaps I should remedy that, my Thane."

She'd sighed, as if very put-upon. "No need. I've gotten used to wearing the pants in this relationship." The man had pouted at her as Vilkas and Farkas exchanged glances, having only met Valdimar briefly while the housecarl was on duty protecting his Thane. This was a side of him they hadn't expected.

"My Thane," Valdimar had uttered quietly as the twins went to unpack their things for a few days, "you always bring such fascinating people with you, but I couldn't help noticing that both Companions chose to unpack in your room."

Ysmir smiled apologetically and patted his cheek, "Sorry, old boy, they're both with me. I don't think they go for men, anyway."

Valdimar sighed, looking as heartbroken as Bandit when all the bacon was gone. "It figures. I will serve you until the day I die, Thane, but it is so hard to meet a nice man with a pretty young woman around—especially one that attracts dragons."

Thinking back on this, Ysmir kicked at the draugr, rolling him down the hill a bit. It was obvious her housecarl and Hjaalmarch Steward was beyond lonely out here, but she wasn't sure what exactly to do about it. She'd already given him leave to go to Solitude or Morthal whenever he wanted, but she had a feeling the Nord mage was a bit of an introvert, and just content to live in what the children referred to as the Library House in the Swamp, going through her books. Maybe she should suggest he take a trip to Winterhold. He'd expressed guarded interest in seeing the College, and a letter of reference should get him past Faralda to see the Arcanaeum.

She really should be searching for a solution to Kodlak's problem. She already knew there was nothing here on Dragonborn, since she tended to keep those volumes at whatever house she was currently living in. Lycanthropy, however, had never really interested her much, despite being acquainted with several werewolves. She'd delved into it briefly after meeting Skjor only to decide that people were people, and turning into a salivating beast that might eat her was no worse than showing a fair face only to stab her in the back. At least a werewolf might feel bad about it afterwards.

The mist rising from the swamp cloaked the landscape, muffling sound and making it look as if the Blue Palace to the west rested on a cloud. She wondered briefly how Elisif was doing, and if she should pop in on the prospective High Queen. Most people just called her High Queen now, what with the Civil War having raged for over a decade with no end in sight. Elisif would be the first to correct them, however. Different as they were, Ysmir felt rather bad for the striking Nord woman. Torygg had been her life, and she'd gone into an almost catatonic state when Ulfric killed him. Her court was so used to handling the everyday affairs of the country that they had essentially brushed her off when she finally decided that she might as well take up the business of jarldom, rather than just the name. While Elisif was ruling in her own right now—and doing a better than fair job of it, too—she was still just as lonely as when Ysmir had met her.

Restless, the Dragonborn started pacing. There was nothing she could do at the moment other than what she was doing, she reminded herself sternly. She needed to leave her children be, lest any watchers Siddgeir may have sent follow her to them. Lydia had written, enclosing a letter from Blaise that made her wince and wonder if she should be spending more time schooling her children, but really she was horrible at it. Normally she left it up to the bard, as it was in their job description, but since they hadn't had just one bard for more than a couple of months…She hoped the two issues weren't related.

Serana might be able to help, if she decided to stick around that long. Or she could call Jordis back…but the pretty young housecarl was doing something for her already, and Ysmir wasn't keen to pull her away now that she'd finally gotten settled. Too bad, really, for Jordis had a sweet disposition and an unending patience with people that Ysmir couldn't hope to match. Perhaps she could write Erandur…but no, he was running an official Temple of Mara out of the former Nightcaller Temple. She'd been meaning to make a sizable donation to it, now that she thought about it. Anonymously, of course; Erandur frankly thought her willingness to take lovers while having no intention of ever marrying any of them was an affront to Mara. He'd been fine with it up until she'd mentioned the whole no marriage thing, but…well, he was a priest.

Sending Valdimar with the donation might be an idea. Maybe Erandur could direct him to a few other lonely men seeking Mara's guidance for companionship.

Looking off into the mists in the direction he'd gone, she wondered if that was something he'd be interested in doing. Currently, he was off finding more game for the table. He'd been horrified at the idea of her cooking, thought she couldn't fathom why. Actually, the twins didn't tend to let her cook when she was away from home, either. She wondered why for a moment before turning her wandering thoughts back to her children.

Perhaps…she knew she needed to teach Darva to Shout one of these days, but Alesan showing such a dedication to it had sparked an idea. The _thu'um _had proved invaluable to her, saving her life more times than she could tell. It wouldn't hurt to teach it to all her children, not just Darva. There used to be hundreds of warriors that could Shout (hadn't she needed to fight their undead selves?), so there was no reason her children shouldn't learn. It wasn't exactly following the Way of the Voice, but what Arngeir didn't know wouldn't kill him. It wasn't like she was teaching it to a bunch of warlords.

Unrelenting Force, for certain. Become Ethereal as well. Disarm…perhaps Aura Whisper? Yes, that sounded good. If they could master those it would get them out of most situations, she thought. If they proved able and willing, she might teach them more. Skyrim was a dangerous place, after all.

Something moved toward her through the mist and she paused, squinting at it. The twins returning from tracking the draugr to their source? No…Ysmir cursed as a chaurus hunter raced toward her, ducking out of the way as it spat poison acid at her. She hated chaurus with a passion only rivaled by Farkas' hatred of spiders. The buzzing of its wings filled her ears as she summoned a Bound Sword in one hand, the other spraying a Fire Wall in the insect's path. Too close to completely veer away, it clicked its mandibles angrily as it burned, rising over the flames to come at her again.

"What did I ever do to you?" she wondered, wishing she was wearing her Amulet of Poison Resistance. More fool her, she had left most of her gear and potions inside the house, having only stepped outside for some air. Flicking her hand a little as she switched spells, she readied Flames, which was significantly weaker but the damned things tended to dodge the higher spells.

The chaurus hunter darted at her, stinger whipping forward and grazing her arm as she slashed at it, sending flames to engulf it as it retreated, spitting. A few drops got on her robes, burning holes through the fabric with a hissing sound. She cried out as the acid hit her skin and tore the soaked fabric away from her, glaring at the chaurus as she cast the rag away.

The winged insect spat poison at her again, narrowly missing her as she cursed and rolled to the side, hearing the twins yelling in alarm out in the marsh, probably having seen the flames. And Valdimar wondered why she never brought the children here anymore, honestly! When it wasn't draugr it was giant insects or forest trolls. Casting another jet of flame at the creature, she watched warily as it started for her again.

A black hole opened before her, a long tentacle shooting out to impale the insect, retracting as fast as it had appeared and leaving her gaping, then scowling at the portal to Oblivion in annoyance that swiftly turned to panic as she realized that this would be nigh impossible to explain to the twins if they saw it.

Miraak stepped out, his entire posture rigid and wary, eyes boring furiously into her from behind his mask and she straightened, sensing something was very, very wrong. "Miraak?" she said tentatively, taking a halting step forward.

He tossed something on the ground before her as the twins came racing up, halting in disbelief at the scene, oddly lit by the diffused light of the marsh, her dying flame wall and the light-leeching portal. Ysmir stooped to retrieve the object as Vilkas growled for Miraak to get away from her, readying his weapon as Farkas followed his lead, looking doubtful.

Miraak turned his head, regarding the pair of them coldly from behind the impassive metal of his mask, still eerily quiet as Ysmir looked over the jade and emerald circlet in confusion that quickly turned to horror as she studied the intricate carving in the largest gem.

"Miraak," she breathed, mouth dry with dread as she looked up at him, "what did you do?"

His gaze returned to her and she could almost hear his teeth grinding as he glared at her. "What you should have," he ground out before vanishing, portal and all, in a puff of black smoke that looked like a drop of ink in water. Ysmir continued to stare at where he had been, thumb running idly over the Crest of Falkreath, numb with disbelief.

Vilkas didn't have any such problem. "Miraak?" he repeated furiously, storming over to her. "The First Dragonborn? I thought Hermaeus Mora killed him in Apocrypha?"

"He stabbed him," she said numbly. "It didn't kill him."

"And now he's visiting you?" Vilkas raged, as close to panic as she had ever seen. "A man who survived a Daedric Prince's attempt to murder him? Does he want a re-match?"

"No," she said shortly as Farkas trudged over, giving the spot Miraak had been a wide berth.

"'No'?" he echoed, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "What do you mean 'no'? How do you know?"

Ysmir finally lifted her gaze to his, horror and fear and guilt so plain she might as well have them written on her forehead and he stopped, staring down at her in growing awareness. "Ysmir…" he whispered, "What have you done?"

The look on his face hit her like a physical blow, tears pricking her eyes as he released her, stepping away, putting distance between them. She swallowed, taking in the sight of them: Vilkas disbelieving and betrayed, Farkas worried and utterly confused. "Later," she promised, the word sounding harsh as she forced it around the lump in her throat. "Right now we have to get to Falkreath."

"Falkreath?" Farkas said incredulously, "But we just ran away from there!"

Vilkas didn't say anything, but his gaze dropped to the circlet in her hands and his swift intake of breath said it all.

Ysmir shoved it at him and fled inside the house.

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* * *

.

Odahviing hovered over Falkreath long enough for the amazed guards to see her waving from his back, yelling at them that it was all right, and to lower their weapons. All the same, the dragon didn't stick around to see how long the armistice lasted after she and the twins dismounted, heading for the longhouse at a run.

A guard saw them coming and stepped in their path, "Don't—Dragonborn!" he exclaimed when he recognized her, abruptly stepping aside. "You can go in, Thane. Who's this?"

"Vilkas and Farkas of the Companions," Vilkas announced them gruffly before Ysmir could do more than open her mouth.

"Uh…you're with the Dragonborn?" the guard asked, clearly uncertain whether to grant them admittance or not.

"Yes," Farkas said firmly, solving the problem for him by walking right past him. Ysmir gave the guard a faint, reassuring smile—as best she could, anyway—and headed inside.

Nenya was on the bench along the left side of the longhouse, looking like death and sobbing hysterically as Helvard held her, not looking much better himself. It didn't take more than one look at the woman's face to see that she wasn't grieving, she was terrified. "What happened?" Ysmir demanded, halting next to them and kneeling before the elf.

"Dragonborn!" Helvard exclaimed, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find out what happened," she replied levelly, hiding her racing heart and sick stomach behind a calm demeanor. It was obvious someone clearheaded was desperately needed. Guards stood in clumps of two or three around the long wooden room. Most of the light came from the door and the central firepit—no one had even lit the torches yet, and dusk was rapidly approaching. Disbelief hung over the entire gathering like a pall.

The housecarl's face darkened and he jerked his head toward the door on the far end of the longhouse. "Nenya found him."

Taking a deep breath and feeling as if she were in a nightmare, Ysmir rose and walked to the back of the longhouse, dimly sensing the twins following. The jarl's sitting room was a mess; food and dishes strewn all over the table, the benches askew and a chair on its side by the door. There was vomit in at least one corner. A guard was bracing himself on the table, helmet removed as he gasped for breath, looking as if he were trying not to be ill. Farkas frowned and guided him onto one of the benches, bending the man double until his head was very nearly between his knees.

Ysmir moved past that, to the door at the far end of the room, forcing herself to look. She had seen men torn apart by dragons, corpses covered with burns or the wounds that killed them. She would face whatever Miraak had done.

The floor was carpeted with paper, pages of parchment torn from the remains of books littering the room. At a glance, each page held one sentence, written in red; "The price of knowledge is death." A faint black mist rose from the pages, hovering at knee-height and filling the room with an odd, acrid stench that reminded her faintly of a tannery. All the furniture had been swept against the walls as if an explosion had been set off in the middle of the chamber, leaving mostly kindling and piles of ragged cloth lining the perimeter. Even the wall baskets had been flattened.

Siddgeir was near the far wall, lying in a puddle of black liquid. It streamed from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth. All his veins were black. His face was frozen in terror, his body contorted oddly, as if his bones had melted and reshaped themselves as he tried to crawl away from something. His eyes were black holes, staring at her in anguish.

She spun away and found herself face to chest-plate with Vilkas, who growled at the scene and thankfully put his arms around her, ushering her out. Their footsteps clattering on the stone floor outside made her realize just how silent the room was. Whatever happened in there could have taken hours or just moments; either way, no one would have heard a thing. Farkas looked up from the wretched guard with inquiry on his face.

"The bastard changed his blood to ink and let him drown in it," Vilkas rumbled, voice barely human, and Ysmir could feel the prick of his nails through his gauntlet as he fought the Change.

Farkas realized it too. "There's nothing more we can do," he said decisively.

"Can't you tell anything?" the guard asked warily, turning his head to look hopefully at Ysmir. "You're a mage."

Ysmir swallowed. "No mage did this," she told him. "This was the work of a Daedric Prince. The papers, the ink…he summoned the Daedric Prince of Forbidden Knowledge."

"Hermaeus Mora?" the guard—who she belatedly recognized as the Captain—said, face ghastly.

She closed her eyes. _"'The price of knowledge is death,'"_ she recited. "Whatever Jarl Siddgeir asked him was something he didn't want anyone living to know." Or Siddgeir specifically? She didn't really want to know. She could guess, however.

The guard captain let his head sink back onto the table, taking a shuddering breath. "In all my years…That's not a death I'd wish on anyone. To be robbed of Sovngarde that way…" he trailed off, shuddering.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go home and drink. A lot," she replied weakly, and that got a nod out of him.

"Aye. Best hope no one attacks tonight, because half the guard will be doing the same, no matter what I tell them," he replied.

"I'll see if Odahviing wouldn't mind keeping an eye on the town for one night," she said, thinking aloud.

He stared at her in amazement. "Odibing? The dragon? You can do that? Command him to keep a town safe?"

"I can ask," she corrected, feeling Vilkas's hands tighten on her arms. They needed to go. "Good luck, Captain. Divines keep you," she murmured, letting the Companion usher her out the door. "Go. I'll catch up with you," she told them, glancing at Nenya.

Vilkas nodded, hurrying out. No one looked surprised.

Ysmir sank down onto the bench beside the Steward, placing a gentle hand glowing with healing magic on her back, warding off shock and banishing the nausea and congestion that came with copious amounts of tears. "Siddgeir was killed by the Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate," she told them. "Whatever he asked, apparently the price for the knowledge was his life."

Nenya was looking at her in honest surprise, pushing the tangles of hair that had escaped her buns out of her face. "Hermaeus Mora? But…Siddgeir wasn't a scholar or a mage or…he wasn't interested in anything but his money and his drink and wenching and—" she paled, apparently realizing she'd said too much about the former jarl's clandestine activities.

"I don't know what possessed him to summon him," she said morosely, "but it most certainly got him killed. I'm sorry." She rose, heading out the door. No one stopped her.

**.**

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**Hi everybody! So I don't know if anyone else had this glitch, but the first time I had Valdimar as a follower he would always look at my hip area. Didn't matter if I was in first or third person, his gaze was solidly down around my waist. Since my Dovahkiin was male and it never happened again, this resulted in the headcannon that Valdimar is solidly attracted to other men, no matter what his coding may tell him.**

**This week I was headbutted by Freedom-a phrase my brother-in-law finds hilarious. I met Freedom Wednesday, when the sixty pound bundle of muscular affection broke out of his owner's car and went high-tailing it down the parking lot where I and my co-workers were just closing the store, and we promptly freaked out at this loose dog heading toward a highway and detained him. He did not like being confined in the back of my car after it took all three of us to hold him still enough to read his tag. He really wanted to take my face off with his tongue (scary Pit Bull), which is when I got headbutted by his wiggling self. Luckily, his owner was just a few stores down and very grateful that we had detained Freedom. **

**Of course, once I got home my chinchillas evidently got jealous, because one of them headbutted me in the face at a full run.**

**Thank you to all those who reviewed! **

**Throthgar's bane: There are ways to make life difficult for him? Do tell. And thanks. I always like being accused of genius. :)**

**Nargus: Here what happened to the jarl. I hope it lived up to expectations. And I fully agree; tell your friends. ;P**

**Wynni: You guessed it! The visitor was Miraak and it's not strange at all to prefer Miraak to Siddgeir-one's an annoying user who talks down at you every time you see him, and the other just steals dragon souls. M'aiq is to be trusted, unless and until someone buys him off with calipers. **

**afeleon276: I have this mental image of you going to the fridge or something just cackling while generic family types give you odd looks. This makes me very happy. :) Miraak cares very much, but only about specific people. Everyone else can go swallow a giant's club for all he cares. I might continue Beginnings, but it wouldn't be for a while. I'm trying to get my original stuff published right now. **

**Vergil1989: Yeah, he really picked a bad time to call in that last favor...Luckily for Sofie M'aiq isn't the type to hurt a child-or leave one alone on the road at night. He's pretty decent, if perhaps a bit into Sheo's realm or moon sugar, I haven't quite figured out which. I'll have to check out that site when I have more time to do an epic watch. I hear they're doing screenings of GoT on IMAX though, which I might check out too. **

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**Next week: Aventus meets some new people! They're not very friendly towards anyone who doesn't fancy wearing skulls. Ysmir and the twins head back to Lakeview only to receive another shock. Oh, and something some of you have perhaps been waiting for happens (no, Wynni, not that).**


	46. Chapter 46: Home

Aventus stared down at the river below him, lost in thought. He'd seen a dragon today, flying on the horizon, light shining off its scales in a way that suggested the beast was red. His first thought was that it was Odahviing, but he'd rarely seen the _dovah_ without Ysmir calling him first. There must be other red dragons, he supposed, watching the dark, deceptively calm water before him. As he well knew, calm water could often hide surprising depths, especially in this jutting, sloping country.

"Still out here?" Serana asked, walking out of the cave mouth behind him. He'd needed to get out of the towers for a while (especially as Dagny seemed to be constantly underfoot nowadays) and going for a walk on the plain seemed inadvisable, since one of the slowly-reforming Brats might see him out a window. Of course, that was before the sun had ducked behind a mountain, splashing the sky around it with crimson more like it had impaled itself upon the peak than passed beyond it. If he walked on the plains now, they most likely wouldn't be able to see him, but he was content to sit and watch the murky river as it faded to a black ribbon in a grayscale landscape.

"Yeah," he replied, turning to look at the vampire. She still wore her face morphed into the grotesque snarl that made her forehead and nose crinkle like a bat's, but he found he didn't mind all that much, even with the startling effects of the single fire outside the door flickering over her. Strange, seven years ago he would have shrank from her in terror, but after summoning the Dark Brotherhood, living with Grelod, having close dealings with dragons and werewolves, falling in love with a vampire, and staying with a Hagraven, he found not much seemed to bother him, anymore.

"Any trouble?" she asked, and he nodded to a pair of mudcrabs he'd killed. The old iron sword Melka had lent him lay in the grass beside him. "Oh, good," she said pleasantly. "Dinner."

Aventus laughed, watching her collect the things. They were small, for mudcrabs, but the things were still rather bulky. "Need any help?"

"Nah. Just relax. You deserve a break from Dagny's wailing," she said, hefting the crabs onto her shoulders and heading inside. "Just remember to keep an eye out and run inside if you see anything worse than mudcrabs."

"Will do," he promised with a smile, looking back over the water. It was rather lulling. Water had always had that effect on him. When his momma and da were alive, they used to go sit by the White River, watching the ice flows go by. Most of the time it would lull him to sleep, and his mother would pick him up and carry him back into the city. That was in gentler times, before the soldiers came and started calling them filthy Imperials, before his father lost his job and had to go work at the docks with the Argonians. Before he fell in the water and got sick. Before his mother seemed to waste away without him, visiting the Hall of the Dead until the air down there made her sick, too.

He shook his head, trying to banish the morbid turn of thoughts. As he did, he saw a glimmer out of the corner of his eye and instinctively ducked.

"Die, Imperial!" the woman hissed as he rolled away, grabbing his sword and looking up in surprise. The woman was small, clad in skins and bone. The glimmer had been her mage armor. Aventus swallowed down the knot of tension that formed in his throat; a Foresworn.

"I've done nothing to you," Aventus stated, licking his dry lips and glancing at the cave opening, heart sinking. Another Foresworn could be faintly made out against the guttering light of the fire, blocking his way. "I've never harmed you or your people."

"All invaders will be thrown out," the man snarled, shooting lightning at him. Aventus dodged, bringing him within reach of the woman's blade, which he blocked hastily with his own.

"So throw me out; don't kill me!" he snarled right back, kicking the woman's foot where it rested on a damp rock. She yelped as she slipped, losing her balance and falling in the river.

"You little brat," the man hissed, catching him with lightning. Aventus cried out and staggered, bringing his blade back up just in time to keep the man's ax from caving his head in. He gasped, backing away and glancing at the cave. The damned Foresworn was still between him and it. Following his gaze, the Foresworn smirked, holding up his hand so the boy could watch lightning crackle along his fingers.

Aventus glared, angry that this man thought that all it took was a little magic to push him around. "I am Aventus Arentino," he told the Foresworn, adjusting his stance, "I survived hell and I summoned the Dark Brotherhood. I am the adopted son of a dragon, and you do not scare me."

The Foresworn laughed. "Well, then, Dragon's son, come and get me." No sooner had he finished the words than he jumped back, surprise on his face as the boy was suddenly within his reach, slashing and stabbing and driving him back with an alarming amount of skill. Baring his teeth, the man reached out, summoning lightning once more—and Aventus saw his chance, allowing the lightning to hit him as he brought his sword around, all but severing the hand from the wrist. The Foresworn cried out in agony as Aventus staggered back, his limbs twitching and jerking from the Sparks, but doing his best to shake it off.

The man held his hand to his chest, glaring at him with hate as he raised his other hand, flames blossoming in his palm. Aventus reacted without thinking, ducking under the hand and running the blade of the sword along the man's exposed midriff, using his momentum to twist out of the Foresworn's reach as he waited to see what he would do next.

The teenager stared dumbly as the Foresworn gasped, hand going to his stomach. Then he fell, his breath a dry wheeze, his eyes going dull as a growing pool of black spread beneath him in the dim starlight. Aventus stared for a moment before looking at his sword, shiny with the same dark liquid. He felt wetness on his arms, on his face, soaking through his shoulder. He had a few cuts, and he still tingled uncomfortably from the lightning, but that was it.

With a howl of grief, the first Foresworn stumbled up the bank from where she had been struggling to pull herself out of the current, launching herself at the boy with two swords, swinging them in a rapid succession of blows. He yelped as she got past his attempt to block, slicing shallowly across his shoulders and biceps. It was all he could do to continue to obstruct her blows as she assailed him, whirling and stabbing faster than he ever had been able to.

Aventus's foot caught on a loose cobble in the road and he fell, so near the cave he could cry if he thought about it, but he wasn't given time. Staring up at the woman as the first light of Masser flooded the scene, he saw his death in her eyes. His sword caught on one of the bone spikes in her weapon, twisting it out of his hand and sending it spiraling away. He looked after it helplessly for a second, then back to the grinning woman, who placed a foot on his chest and raised the second sword over his head. "First you, then all the Reach!" she screeched.

Abruptly her head was pulled back, yanking her off-balance. "Don't you people _ever_ get sick of that battle-cry?" Babette asked tiredly, dragging an ebony dagger swiftly across her neck, then tossing the woman away from her in disgust. "Reachmen. Are you alright?"

For a long moment all he could do was stare up at her eyes, shining crimson in the moonlight and the only thing that could be readily seen with the firelight silhouetting her form. He spared a moment to think idly that it was sort of strange that her eyes looked like blood when the blood looked like ink. "Yeah," he finally replied, sitting up, not able to take his eyes off her. "How did you find me?"

"Arnbjorn," she replied, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, where he saw a huge Nord in black armor and bare feet, hefting a battleax over his shoulder with apparent disgust at not having had a chance to use it. He noticed her looking at him and grunted, turning to walk back the way he had come.

Babette reached down and pulled him to his feet with no apparent difficulty, her cool hand sending a sensation much like the lightning magic coursing up his arm. Retrieving his sword for him, she handed it to him hilt-first after cleaning it on the grass. Looking around, she shook her head in disbelief, laughing a little. _"This_ is where they stashed you to keep you safe from me? That mother of yours certainly has a strange sense of humor." The glance she gave him was almost shy, the moon glinting off her hair and the ruby pendant she wore and this was not good. This was not good at all.

"You tried to kill my family," he rasped.

She shook her head. "No. Veezara poisoned your family to get me back. You can't say your mother wouldn't have done something equally drastic. And you all came out of it all right…I made sure of that," she added the last part quietly, as if afraid to admit to it.

"Why?" he persisted, trying to sound as suspicious as possible.

Babette actually looked hurt for a moment, and he ruthlessly pushed away the sick clenching of his gut when he saw her wounded expression. "Because…because I like you," she admitted in a rush. "And Sofie gave me a dress when mine was ruined. Because Darva gave me a doll. Because Lucia shoved cream treats under the door whenever she had a chance. Because Blaise promised that he'd help me escape if he heard they were going to hurt me, and because Runa promised she'd keep me safe. Because Alesan and Ma'Rakha kept the stream of books coming. Because Serana wiped my tears, and because that stupid, impetuous Dragonborn kept me alive and healed my wounds even though she was who I was sent to kill in the first place."

She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the ground, face closed although there were dark tracks down her cheeks. "And because…I had forgotten. The Dark Brotherhood is a family, but not like yours. You said you cared about me even after you learned who and what I was. I like the Dark Brotherhood, and I care about the people there deeply but…" she shrugged, "you learn to deal with people dying, not coming back from a mission. You shed a tear and move on. But you people…you aren't related by blood any more than we are, but you genuinely love each other. No one…no one's loved me since I was a little girl."

She looked so wretched, standing there crying tears of blood as she stared at the ground in front of him. It felt like someone had reached inside his chest and was squeezing his heart, and he dropped the sword and pulled her to him, holding her tightly as she stiffened, then put her arms around him. "We should get going," she said after a long moment, pushing away slightly. "We have a lot to talk about and sooner or later that Volkihar is going to come back out looking for you."

He nodded, guiltily retrieving his weapon (the Papas and Lydia had always taught him to never, ever drop his weapon) and following her upriver a bit, crouching in the shadows there. "So," she said, examining him. "You just made your first kill, if I'm not mistaken. How do you feel?"

That gave him pause. He'd killed a man. Aventus wasn't sure what to think. He should feel sick, or—perhaps not guilty, the man had been trying to end his life, after all, but surprisingly, all he felt was relieved. Relieved that the man was dead, and he wasn't. "I'm glad I'm not dead," he said. "Shouldn't I feel…I don't know, something more?" he pushed his hair off his face, perplexed, then grimaced when he realized how sticky his hand was.

"I don't think it's really hit you yet," she confided, then ducked her head. "My first kill…I couldn't stop crying. I was still a little girl, after all. My sire brought the man back, and he was tied up and gagged and looking at me as if I were a demon. He said I could kill him and eat, or starve to death. The choice was mine. That man sat there for two days before the hunger got so bad that I couldn't help myself. It was so messy…" she trailed off, then remembered herself and looked at him anxiously, but his gaze was concerned. For her. She smiled a bit and shook her head. "You are strange."

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?" he asked, somehow doubting it.

"No," she said, straightening. "I have…a proposition, if you will. I've talked to Astrid, and she's willing to make you a deal."

"What deal?" he asked, not entirely certain he wanted to know. "Who's Astrid?"

"Our leader," she supplied, then bit her lip. "Actually, I'm going to show you something first. Up for a bit of a walk?"

Aventus glanced up at the towers, torn.

"If you want to come back here afterwards, you will. You have my word," Babette told him solemnly.

After another moment of thought, Aventus nodded, rising and offering her a hand, which she took with pleasure. Hand in hand, they started off down the road into the night.

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* * *

.

Vilkas didn't rejoin them until halfway back to Lakeview. Farkas was quiet, seeming lost in thought as they walked, which was fine with Ysmir. She was dreading the confrontation that was to come, and the blistering look Vilkas gave her when he finally emerged from the growth on the side of the road warned her that it wasn't going to be easy. It seemed, however, that he wished to wait until they were back at the house. When they crested the hill behind Pinewatch, however, the impending confrontation was put on hold.

"What happened?" Farkas asked, shocked. The house was still standing, but the front door was smashed open, pieces of what used to be furniture and dinnerware leading to it. The garden was ruined, the stable pulled down, and the fence surrounding the animal pen trampled.

Ysmir swallowed, heading down to see what was left.

The inside had been thoroughly demolished. The weapons she'd had on display were missing, and the strongbox beside the case that had once held the Axe of Whiterun was lying open on the floor, flawless gems missing. As they walked into the dining room a skeever jumped at them, only to have Vilkas kick it away and Ysmir kill it with a lightning spell.

"My home," she whispered, looking around the dining room where she and the children had spent nearly six years of dinners, lessons, and stories. Where she and her friends had enjoyed a victory celebration or drowned their sorrows in a bottle of mead. It looked as if someone had taken a battleax to it. They went through the house, room by room, and there was barely a piece of furniture that was not overturned or hacked into. All the enchanted weapons had been taken. All the armor, all the spellbooks. The soulgems, Lydia's jewelry making supplies, Ysmir's Stone of Barenziah that Sheogorath had given her with a little knowing grin.

"Who would do this?" Farkas asked helplessly, looking around the ransacked children's room as Ysmir bent and scooped up Lucia's second-favorite doll. Someone had stepped on it, splitting the seam along the head and causing the stuffing to burst out.

"I have a few ideas," she said, scrubbing at her cheeks. "Whoever it was, they were looking for something specific. The things they stole were just useful, incidental. They hacked apart anything that could have a secret compartment in it, and—oh, no," she dropped the doll, whirling as all the blood drained from her face.

"What is it?" Farkas asked as she raced past him. Vilkas looked up, startled, and followed with a worried frown on his face.

Throwing the remains of a small cabinet aside, Ysmir ripped open the door to the basement, dropping down and ignoring the ladder entirely. She looked at the Shrines and moaned, sagging against a pillar.

"What did they take?" Vil asked, sliding down the ladder carefully to avoid hitting her. She pushed away from the support, making room for him as she numbly went toward the ledge that had once held the Shrines of the Nine. It was completely torn apart, revealing the hollow inside where three long, shallow shelves rested.

"The Shrines are all right, at least," Farkas noted, pointing to where they had been carefully set aside, probably out of fear of angering the Aedra. "Even if the Talos one is missing." He looked worriedly over at where Ysmir knelt, bowed before the empty pedestal, hands clutching the broken stonework. "Hey," he said, walking over and sinking down next to her, putting an arm around her and rubbing her back. "It's all right. We can rebuild. It's not like they took anything that can't be replaced with more adventures, right?"

The stricken look on her face made him glance worriedly at Vilkas. "Right?"

Vil dropped down on Ysmir's other side, pulling her up to face him. "Ysmir, what did they take?"

"The Elder Scrolls," she said faintly, eyes wide. "They were looking for the Elder Scrolls."

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**Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

**This has been an interesting couple of days for the turtles and boring ones for the chins. The hose putting water back into the tank from the filter fell out, releasing around thirty or forty gallons all over the carpet-which still isn't dry. The turtles were swimming in six inches of water, chasing the guppies and stepping all over the giant plecos. In other words, having a gay old time (gay in the original, olden-day way, otherwise it's hard to tell, what with them not really displaying gender most of the time. Besides Gamera, who lays eggs.). Because chinchillas can't get wet, they haven't been out, because they love to hide under the tanks where it is wettest. They are not happy. One of them bit me.**

**We reached a new record of 303 views in a day! (And only one review for those three hundred plus hits...) Unless I get one in the minutes before this posts, the first review on this chapter will be my hundredth! Internet cookies to whoever you are!**

**Thank you everyone who reviewed! You guys make my day every time that number goes up! ^_^**

**Throthgar's bane: His looks would be improved with a top hat, monocle and claws...**

**Wicked Lullaby: Welcome back! I like writing Miraak the Daedra-but I have to be careful with him too. It's a good thing he's still learning his abilities, or I might have a God Mode Sue on my hands. Morthal's a little damp but otherwise it's okay. Lots of cute kids there.**

**bleachcreep21: Sounds thrilling and fattening. Glad I made you happy. ^_^ (How does he appear out of nowhere like that anyway? Wtf?)**

**Wynni: It was Babette! (I know; awww shucks.) I love Vilkas, I really do. He's my husband most games when I join the Companions. Miraak's already a favorite, as far as I'm concerned. :) No matter what gameverse, it seems Valdimar is a pistol. **

**Reader: I also frequently have the problem with the Foresworn. And yet I can never find their recruitment office. Fortunately or unfortunately, Siddgeir was still only plotting to do this when he summoned his Doom. **

**Vergil 1989: Oooh, did I give you goosebumps? :D At least Miraak didn't pull him into Apocrypha. He just went to whatever afterlife Nords who don't die in battle go to. Or whatever the Nord version of hell is. I could see him going there too. The Void? A dairy farm? I don't know. As for being headbutted, Pits have thick skulls and my chi baby just kinda bounced off, shook her head like she was confused, then kangaroo-hopped her way through the kitchen at top speed. No lessons learned, there. **

**Thank you, everyone, for the encouraging words! **

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**Next Week: Innocence Lost, the chapter that made me cry to write it, and frustrated by boyfriend because he couldn't figure out what was wrong.**


	47. Chapter 47: Innocence Lost

Aventus never thought he'd be able to doze on a horse, but somehow he'd managed it. Babette had met up with an ebony black horse with glowing crimson eyes like hers, asking for a leg up before pulling him up behind her. The horse had run faster than any beast the boy had ever ridden, but it was still near dawn when they approached a town. Rather than go in, Babette directed the horse up a side trail to what looked like an abandoned shack, the front of it littered with the corpses of skeevers.

"Here," she said, handing him an amulet, "put this on."

He glanced at the skeevers. "If it's for diseases, I'm already protected," he told her, although he would like the chance to get out of his wet tunic and trews. He'd stopped to wash the blood off before it got too dry, but hadn't had anything to change into.

She eyed him skeptically, then shrugged, heading into the house. He followed, noting from the piles of filth in the hearth and the rags hung up to dry that it had been cleaned recently. "The man who lived here died," she supplied. "The skeevers infested and he got bit. I don't think anyone in the town really liked him, because they just left him to rot. We cleared him out, though," she added, indicating the obvious signs of cleaning.

He looked up, noticing fresh patches in the thatch. "So we'll be staying here for the day?"

"I'm afraid so," she said apologetically. "I can't exactly go out in the sun, and that oaf that got me with an Ice Spike lives in this village."

"What about the horse?" he asked worriedly, "Does he need to…spend the day inside?"

Babette stared at him a moment before bursting out laughing. "Shadowmere isn't a vampiric horse. I'm not even sure there is such a thing," she admitted. "Although, if there are death hounds, I suppose there could be death steeds, but Shadowmere's not one of them. He'll be fine."

She went and sat on the bed, which had fresh straw and furs, much to his relief—at least until he realized that there was only one bed. He felt a bit panicked, glancing around, his gaze falling on a pile of books, a covered basket, and a pair of buckets with a ladle. Careful investigation proved the basket to be full of food and the pales full of fresh water, one obviously for cleaning up with.

"There's a jug of horker stew in there," she offered, again with that new hint of shyness. "I remembered you saying you hadn't gotten it that often since you moved down from Windhelm, and that it was your favorite."

He looked at her in surprise, then smiled. "Thanks."

After a few ladles full of water and half a piece of bread, Aventus found himself nodding off again. The bread he was chewing nearly fell out of his mouth as he yawned. He shot an apologetic look at Babette only to see that she had fallen asleep, curled up on the far side of the bed, deliberately leaving the nearer half empty. He flushed, then yawned again, looking around for any other place to sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and she held out a hand to him, drawing him in with her and wrapping her arms around him, snuggling her face against his chest with a sigh before going back to sleep. He wondered how she managed, being next to his rapidly beating heart and all. Tentatively putting his arms around her, the long night finally overwhelmed him, and he slept.

.

* * *

.

Waking up with a vampire staring at his neck wasn't exactly the best sensation Aventus had ever had, even if he did feel pleasantly warm and his stomach was all fluttery. Babette smirked at him, tickling his neck playfully with delicate fingers, and he blushed, sliding out of the bed and over to the second bucket of water, rinsing his face rapidly to cool the heat pooling in his cheeks, pretending he couldn't hear her snickering behind him. Checking the light carefully to make sure it wouldn't hit her when he opened the door, Aventus went outside, glancing about in the evening gloom. The horse was still there, peering at him consideringly, as if he were smarter than he would expect a horse to be. Aventus nodded to him as he would a person, hiding his surprise when the steed nodded right back.

"You can come back in now," Babette called after a few minutes.

Aventus ventured back inside as she blotted her lips daintily with a handkerchief, ornate bottle in her hands. He helped himself to some of the horker stew, offering her some, which she declined, although she did split a honey-nut treat with him. When at last it was dark enough to venture out, they slipped at her behest from shadow to shadow down into the village, his heart beating so loudly the entire time he was certain someone would hear it.

"This is it," she finally said, halting behind another house. "Now, we're going to go in, observe, and come right back out to decide our course of action. Are you ready?"

He nodded, wondering what this was about but getting a sinking feeling she was bringing him along for an assassination. They darted around front, he keeping watch as she quickly picked the lock, then they slipped inside with no one the wiser. Babette instantly guided him behind a pair of barrels with a crate placed upon them, a hoe and pitchfork leaning against them.

Aventus froze when the all-too-familiar crack of flesh on flesh greeted his ears. Wide-eyed, he peered carefully through the gap where the tops of the barrels curved away from each other. He felt his blood run cold as he took in a Nord farmer looming over a small girl, about Lucia's age but severely underfed, who cowered before him. Beyond them, another girl the same age watched impassively, occasionally taking another bite of her dinner. She was a bit better fed, but other than that Aventus would bet they were twins.

"Useless little bitch! I toil and work all day long and what have you been doing? Learning magic! You're a Nord, girl, not a Breton like that busybody witch-man!"

"Please, stop!" sobbed the girl, rolling with the blows as he had needed to learn to do when he went to Honorhall.

He gritted his teeth, about to stand up and challenge the man when Babette put a hand on his arm. When he glanced at her she shook her head, nodding towards the door. Making his breathing as even as possible he slunk back out, the vampire close behind him, keeping his jaw clenched tight on his words until they got to the back of the house. "That miserable fetcher!" he ground out, eyes glinting darkly.

Babette nodded. "That's Lemkil. The girls are his daughters, Britte and Sissel. Their mother died giving birth to them, and rumor has it he's never let them forget it. He takes it out on them, and Britte takes it out on Sissel. She's been learning how to defend herself from the local mage, but it sounds like that's about to end—If he doesn't just beat her to death for it. If I had to guess—and I normally don't bother—I'd say that's why someone performed the Sacrament on him."

Aventus nodded, not surprised in the least. "So he's your contract," he surmised.

"No," she said, watching him carefully. "He's your contract."

The boy felt his eyes go round, his face pale. "What do you mean?"

"Here's the deal: Kill Lemkil for us, and you're in. Once you're in, Astrid will drop the contract on the Dragonborn. Half pay from your contracts goes to paying back the clients that wanted her gone, for as long as that takes." She stared at him intently, eyes like embers. Aventus swallowed, looking down for a moment before closing his eyes.

Could he do this? Could he kill this man in cold blood? Maybe. Actually—considering he was most likely in there beating his daughter to death and killing him would save her life—almost definitely. But could he _keep_ doing it? Could he live his life as an assassin? Could he throw away all that the Papas had taught him about honor, and all the talks Ysmir had given him on mercy and the responsibility of the strong towards the weak?

If he didn't, then one day they would kill her, and what about all the people she would have saved had she lived? What about his family, who could get caught in the crossfire? Would he be able to live with himself, knowing he could have prevented that?

No. He would hate himself more for that than he would ever hate himself for joining the Brotherhood. He looked up and caught the anxious, hopeful look on Babette's face before she could hide it. That was another thing. Here was this girl, this amazing, beautiful, cunning girl who just happened to be a vampire and an assassin, her heart obviously in her throat as she waited for his answer.

Aventus closed his eyes, feeling wetness on his cheeks that chilled quickly in the autumn air. He opened his eyes, gazing straight into hers. "Give me your dagger."

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* * *

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Erik rocketed out of the inn when the screaming started, just like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, however, he was conditioned as a fighter and reacted instantly, racing toward Lemkil's house and throwing the door open, staring in amazement. Lemkil lay in a growing pool of his own blood, a neat stab wound through his back into his kidney. Britte was the source of the screams, staring with her fingers curled loosely over her mouth as an unending shriek echoed through the small house.

Sissel was curled up on the floor, nearly unconscious and all-over black and blue. Erik's eyes widened in horror, and he leapt over the dead man to his daughter, fishing a healing potion out of his belt pouch. "Drink, Sissel!" he urged, holding the bottle to her lips, which opened slightly as she accepted the potion.

"What happened?" Rorik demanded, pushing his way into the house only to halt in alarm, taking in the scene.

Erik didn't answer, his gaze locked on a small figure behind the bustle. A boy, clutching a black dagger and looking absolutely lost as he stared at the scene, face lightly spattered with blood. A girl joined him, touching his arm lightly and he jumped, looking down at her. The people jostling to get a better view obscured them and he rose hurriedly to his feet, thrusting the battered girl into Rorik's arms. "She needs Jouane," he said.

"Quite right," Rorik said, his gaze hardening as he took in the girl's condition, glancing at Lemkil's body like he wanted to spit on it. "All right, move people! We need Jouane immediately!"

Erik pushed them aside to various indignant responses that quickly subsided to a distressed hush as their community leader pushed through with the little girl. Rorik pelted down the road, meeting his long-time friend and savior halfway.

"Sissel!" the mage's horrified cry was audible even from where Erik was standing, but he wasn't watching them anymore. He looked up and down the road, frantically searching the shadows beneath the cottages or clustering amongst the rocks for that small form, to no avail.

"Erik!" Reldith grabbed his arm, bringing his attention to the Altmer woman. "What happened? Who killed Lemkil? What happened to Sissel?"

"Lemkil beat her," he said, closing his eyes tightly before looking back up the moonlit road as clouds rushed across the sky, casting confusing sheets of darkness over the faded landscape, "Then a Dark Brotherhood assassin came for him."

She released him as if she'd been burned, clutching the torch in her off-hand as if it were a life line. "Dark Brotherhood? Are you certain, Erik?"

"Yes," he replied around the tightness in his chest, remembering the expression on the boy's face. "I saw the assassin myself, but he's gone now."

"You're sure?" she asked, glancing around fearfully.

"Yeah. I doubt he's ever coming back," Erik stated, feeling a deep sense of loss as he watched the horizon, wind teasing his blond hair, unable to get that face out of his mind.

_ Aventus…_

_._

* * *

.

Runa was easy to wake up. Her eyes flew open when he gently shook her shoulder and she stared at him, eyes round. "Aventus!" she breathed, flinging herself at him. "You're back! I was so worried! Serana said you needed some air but then she and Illia found the dead Foresworn and did you kill them? Frothar and the others are starting to whisper that Melka ate you and I didn't know what to say!"

Aventus held her to him for a long moment, unable to say anything as tears leaked down his cheeks. "Runa," he said huskily, pushing his sister away from him. "Runa, I can't stay."

Her eyes went round, mouth falling open. "What do you mean?" she asked, voice shaking slightly.

"I have a chance to help Mother, and I'm taking it," he said, and she stared up at him for a long moment, unable to process this. "Here," he said, shoving a sealed parchment into her hands before she could properly react. "Don't open this, it's for Mother. Tell her…tell her I'm sorry, but I have to do this," he said fiercely.

"Aventus…" she said, sounding devastated as tears rolled down her face, leaving trails in the grime. "Oh, Aventus, you didn't! You said you wouldn't! We were going to be Companions together!"

"I'm so sorry, Runa," he said, taking her face in his hands and wiping the tears away. "We'll always be on opposite sides now. I can't undo what I just did, and I couldn't live with myself if I hadn't done it."

"What did you do?" she asked, horrified. "What did you_ do?!_"

He didn't answer, leaning forward to kiss her forehead before standing to leave.

"Dammit, Aventus!" she raged, leaping to her feet. "Don't do this! You can't! You can't leave!" He paused, shoulders hunched. She spun him around, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. He was taller than her, he had to look down slightly to meet her eye-to-eye—he wasn't sure when that had happened. She'd always been taller than him. "Don't you dare say we're on opposite sides! You're my brother, damn you. I'll always be on your side. Even if..." she sniffed, "Even if you cross that line, I'm on your side. So don't go!"

Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet hers, and she saw the blood that spattered his face, the darkness in his eyes, and understood. "Holy Divines," she breathed, "You already have."

"Goodbye, Runa," he said after a moment. "Do me a favor, will you? Don't tell the little ones what I did. I saved someone else this time around, someone who deserved to live way more than the man I…than the man I killed, but that won't always be the case, though I'll try to make it so as often as possible."

"Oh, gods," she sobbed, throwing her arms around him and holding him close. He broke just a bit then, clutching her tightly to him as he bit his lip, trying hard not to cry as his sister sobbed into his shoulder.

"I have to go now, sis," he said, kissing her head lightly. "Please give Mo—give Ysmir my letter."

"She's not going to disown you, idiot, so don't you dare call her by name," she scolded, pulling away.

He hadn't seen her so wretched since…well, ever. Even at Honorhall she was so strong, never crying where the boys could see, always facing everything head-on even if she had no chance of beating it. "You're going to be an amazing Companion," he told her, trying to smile, "So don't let that Frothar talk you into being a lady."

"You're saying goodbye forever and you're still going on about that? That's not even—" she halted, realizing what she had just said and clapping her hand over her mouth.

He hugged her again before she could start weeping. Gods, if she started crying again he wasn't going to make it. "I'll see you again, Runa. Just try not to hate me by then, huh?"

"Moron. I could never hate you."

He left her like that, staring after him and clutching Ysmir's letter to her, sneaking out past the others with ease, through the hall where he paused, remembering the evenings spent there, Lars telling stories while Braith tried to hide that she hung on his every word, where he, Frothar and Runa sparred and Nelkir and Dagny watched. They'd had some surprisingly good times here. Not as good as at the house, but he couldn't let himself think about that right now. He made his way to the exit, flinching when a figure emerged from the darkness.

Melka watched him quietly for a moment, even her ragged breathing subdued. Finally, she spoke. "Are you sure about this, nibble? This is a dark path you have wandered down."

"I know," he said evenly, looking her square in the eye.

She bowed her head briefly. "Then go safely, Son of Sithis."

Aventus paused, closing his eyes. "I'm a dragon's son first, and I won't forget it," he said, slipping through the door and into the darkness.

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**Hi, everyone. I hope this chapter took you through the same gamut of emotions it did me. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new faves and followers! **

**Nax: You win the internet cakes and cookies for being the 100th review! (Careful, I get them from the same supplier as the Dark Side...Okay, I admit it; I bake for the Dark Side.) It's not strange to normally marry Vilkas. Grumpo is hot. :P**

**Wynni: The children have learned combat from the Dragonborn, various housecarls, Inigo, and three members of the Companions. For them not to have some amount of skill would just be embarrassing. :) You missed nothing, I haven't really brought up the Scrolls before. Ysmir did not "duck out" of a chewing, it was merely postponed. Next chapter. **

**Vergil 1989: I can't say much in response to that without giving spoilers. -_-... I'm glad you liked the scene! :)**

**Roger509: After everyone's reviews earlier on, not bringing Babette back would have been a crime. Why would I tell you not to review half awake? A half awake review is still a review. ;) Was this one of those "walk into a review and can't remember what you went in there for" moments? I can't tell you if you're way off or not. Spoilers...**

**Reader: Ah, the difficulties of getting rid of unique loot. :D Are you the same "reader" who always mentions Grandpa, or are there a few of you out there who really want to meet him? And, once again, spoilers. **

**bleachcreep21: Besides the Civil one, I don't think there will be war in this story. Not a formal declaration, anyway. Lots of personal battles.**

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**Next Chapter: Ysmir finally has to come clean to the twins. **


	48. Chapter 48: Confessions

The lock had been fixed, and the worse of the furniture piled outside. The storage shed had been left mostly alone, probably due to the front being stacked with the same straw she was making new bedding out of, so they were able to ensure they had something more than their bedrolls to sleep in that night, at least. There were quite a few crates to go through, most of them general stuff rather than armor or weapons, but they had found a few of ore and some loot from her earlier bandit raids that she planned to sell as they went through Riverwood.

"Found these in one of the crates," Farkas said, walking in with an armload of furs. That was good. It was getting colder at night and she wasn't entirely sure she would be cuddled up to the twins for warmth anytime soon. She hadn't seen Vilkas in a couple of hours as he went off to find some fresh food for them. It normally didn't take this long, though, and she wondered if any of the local hunters or fishermen had seen something.

"Thanks," she replied, spreading them out on the pile of straw in her bedroom, then halting uncertainly. "Should…should I…"

The front door slammed as Vilkas stomped back in, a brace of rabbits with him and an infuriated expression on his face. "Whoever ransacked the house did their best to scare away all the game," he raged, eyes glowing yellow. "The hunters don't know what they're going to do. They said a group of warriors came through here about two days after we left, then went through the forest beating their shields and throwing smoke bombs into the thickets. Just before winter, too!"

Ysmir cursed, sitting back on her heals and running a hand though her hair. "Whoever did this wanted to make sure we couldn't settle back in in a hurry," she surmised.

Vilkas was casting an eye over what they had managed to do. After a moment he thrust the rabbits at his brother. "Take those out and skin them, won't you?"

"Sure," Farkas replied, surprised. He nearly dropped them as he glanced from his twin to their lover worriedly, then sighed and headed out. Ysmir wished she could follow.

There was a long moment of silence between them as they listened to his footsteps recede and the front door open and close. Following the grain of the wood with her eyes, Ysmir let the silence stretch on, not wanting to be the one that started this. "He hasn't realized yet, has he?" Vilkas asked her.

Ysmir had the uncomfortable feeling that her stomach had dropped down through the floor. "Realized what?" she asked, doing her best to look up at him.

Vilkas's nostrils flared as he searched for her lie, but she didn't know exactly what he thought yet, so there wasn't one. His breathing was a little ragged, as if he expected to fight. "You couldn't do it, could you?" he asked. "You couldn't bring yourself to kill someone else with the dragon blood."

She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it. "No," she finally said, looking away again. "I couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't. I thought Hermaeus Mora did it for me."

"Because Miraak had betrayed him," Vilkas nodded. "So how is he alive now? Why did he show up at Windstad, admit to killing Siddgeir, then you tell everyone in the hold it was Hermaeus Mora?"

"Hermaeus Mora's gone, Vilkas," she told him warily as she stood, deciding to at least say this while on her feet. "Miraak devoured him, just as he would a dragon soul."

All the color drained from the Companion's face as he stared at her, lips parting as his jaw dropped. "He…" Vilkas swallowed, barely able to comprehend the thought, "A mortal killed a Daedric Prince?"

"A mortal became a Daedric Prince," she corrected, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest, more to shield herself than anything. "Supplanted him, I guess you might say. He seems to have gotten his powers, as well. Some of them, anyway."

Vilkas had to sit down. He pulled one of the few remaining benches to him and fell onto it with a clatter of armor, pressing his face into his hands for a moment, stressed. "What does he want with you?" he asked finally.

There it was. "I'm…not entirely sure," she confessed, shifting uncomfortably. "I can make guesses."

"Then guess," he told her harshly, glaring at her with glowing eyes. Vil always could tell when she was beating about the bush. She supposed she should be glad he had already transformed today.

Swallowing the lump of anxiety in her throat and wishing the thieves had left something to drink in the house—preferably something with alcohol in it—Ysmir bit her lip, looking down for a moment as she thought. There was no good way to explain this, and not enough words to describe it. If there were, they certainly weren't coming to her. Finally, "We're Dragonborn," she said simply, and just watched as some of the pieces fell into place for him.

More than she'd realized, apparently, "He's Darva's father," Vil said flatly, then raised his gaze to her again, this time with more alarm. He actually rose and came over, putting his hands on her shoulders with a sense of desperation. "When you came back, you were different…subdued," he whispered, examining her face fearfully, "Were you….did he…?"

She could say yes, she realized. She could let Vilkas believe Miraak forced her and everything would go back to the way it was. He would forgive her and hate him and do his level best to keep Darva away from her father, which would probably be the best thing for her, all told. But…she remembered how he looked, sitting beside her on the rim of that pool at the Summit of Apocrypha, the delight on his face when she told him about Darva's Shout, the dangerous, sorrowful look in his black eyes as he sent her and Odahviing away. _"Far be it for me to keep someone from the grave of their beloved."_

Ysmir shook her head, and Vilkas stared down at her in horrified amazement, hands dropping from her shoulders as he took a step back. "You're in love with him," he accused, amazed.

The words hit her like a slap and she jerked, "No I'm not!" she denied, feeling her stomach roil with all the emotions coursing through her.

"Dammit, Ysmir!" Vilkas raged at her, brow lowering in a glower, "He's a villain! He enslaved an entire island in their sleep! He_ tried to kill you!_ How can you have feelings for someone like that?"

_"I don't know!"_ she screamed, then slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. "I mean, I don't. I mean…oh, gods." Vision blurring as her eyes filled up with tears, she missed the rather poleaxed expression on the werewolf's face as she spun away. "I can't," she finally managed. "I know I can't. So I don't. _I don't!"_ she finished as fiercely as she could, whirling back around as if she could fling the words in his face like a Dragon Shout.

She certainly didn't feel like a dragon right now. She felt weak, and foolish, and in way over her head. After all she had lived through, she thought resentfully, feeling in over her head was one thing she should be able to avoid.

At length Vilkas sighed. "Come here," he said, and what she heard in his voice had her bristling away from him.

"Oh, for the love of the Divines, don't _pity_ me, Vilkas!" she snarled.

"I don't," he replied, pulling her in and ignoring her feeble attempt at pushing his arms away. "But Ysmir, I've known you for almost ten years and I've never seen that look on your face. It felt like someone shoved a knife in my gut and started twisting. I love you, and I can't just walk away when you're in pain."

She gasped, instinctively trying to draw away with those words, but he held her fast, even giving a bit of an exasperated sigh, "I said 'I love you,' not 'I'm going to chain you to me.' Relax, Ysmir. I'll live."

It took a moment more of him holding her for her to break down, sobbing and clinging to him in a way she hadn't since…well, in too long.

She loved Miraak. Aedra help her, but she did. She was in love with that arrogant, amoral, possibly sadistic Dragonborn who on more than one occasion showed that he was more _dovah_ than man. He certainly had no qualms about killing people. And no matter what happened she could never show it. Never admit it aloud. He was very possibly evil, and most certainly a Daedric Prince with his own fanatical following, and Darva deserved better than that. The moment those cultists discovered her existence she would either be killed in disbelief or put up on a pedestal, never allowed to make her own decisions about where she wanted her life to lead. Worse, Miraak could use her to further his world-domination plans by making her the first of a dynasty, should he decide he didn't want to lead in the open. Darva was so young yet, it would be all too easy for him to do so.

"I'm sorry," she managed after her tears finally dried up, pulling away slightly.

He sighed, releasing her enough for her to break away if she wanted. "You can't help what you feel, Ysmir. Granted, I'm surprised you feel it for _him_ but…well, I suppose he can understand you in a way no one else could. Except perhaps a dragon, and that would be…well, that obviously wouldn't work."

That struck her as funny for some reason, and she chuckled, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. "I don't suppose we can go back now, can we?" she asked, knowing the answer already.

Vilkas shook his head, looking regretful but firm. "No. I will always be your friend, Ysmir, and I will always look after the children, but I can't share your bed. Not after this."

She nodded ruefully, "I'll bring some more straw in, then. Do you want me to set it up in Lydia's room?"

"That would probably be best, but I'll do it. You need to tell Farkas."

Oh, dear. Farkas. Ysmir nodded, not bothering to hide her trepidation as she went down the stairs. Farkas was puttering around the main fireplace, having found a spare pot somewhere and filled it with water and cut-up potatoes and what were most likely the rabbits his twin had brought. At the moment he was holding up a long green stalk, frowning at it in confusion.

"How are you supposed to cut up leaks?" he asked, turning to her. "Leaks go with rabbits, right? And carrots? Or do rabbits just eat carrots?"

She blinked. "Carrots are fine," she said softly. "But, Farkas…that's not a leak, it's a thistle. Putting it in the food would be a bad idea."

He frowned in annoyance, "Then why was it in the garden?"

"Because it's a weed," she replied, unable to stop the small smile that spread across her face.

"Eh," he replied, throwing it in the fire in disgust. "Don't touch that!" he cried in alarm when she went to see what he was doing.

She jumped back, staring at him. "Why not? Farkas, you barely know how to cook!"

He fidgeted, looking just as nervous as she. "Well…that's true, but we know you can't."

Ysmir felt her mouth drop open, hands going to her hips in annoyance as she momentarily forgot her purpose. "What do you mean, I 'can't?' You eat my cooking all the time!"

"I eat Vil's cooking, or Runa's, or Sofie's," he corrected, not able to look at her. "You just seemed so determined to keep at it, so they would keep an eye on it and make sure you didn't burn anything. They were doing most of the actual cooking when your back was turned."

Of all the…Ysmir stared at him as he grew increasingly uncomfortable, fidgeting and looking anywhere but at her. After a good two minutes, she finally managed, "And how long has this been going on?"

"Since that time you got impatient for the bread to be done and decided to see if Destruction magic could help," he revealed.

"Four _years?"_ she nearly screeched.

"Well, according to Runa you have gotten better since then," he offered, looking as panicked as she'd ever seen him. "Lydia hasn't improved at all."

The look on his face was so anxious that she couldn't help but burst out laughing. After a moment to determine he wasn't about to be incinerated, Farkas joined her. Her entire family had been running a gag on her, and she'd never have known. Of course, it sounded like they were trying to spare her feelings but…she sobered, remembering her reason for coming down. Farkas was still laughing, and she felt a pang of regret that she was going to shatter it.

"Farkas," she began, "what Vil and I were talking about. Miraak—"

"Is Darva's father and you're in love with him," he interrupted, straightening as his smile slipped away. "And you and Vil called it off. I heard." She nodded, looking down. "I'm sorry, Ysmir," he said, and her head sprang back up, eyes wide as she waited for him to break things off as well.

"Sorry for what?" she managed.

"I'm sorry that you finally got feelings for somebody, and you don't feel you can do anything about them," he said with a shrug. "I don't know Miraak, and the things he did certainly weren't honorable, but he can't be all bad if Mara decided you should love him and not Vil or me or…well, anybody else."

"I…you think?" she found herself asking, surprised that Farkas had brought a Divine into the conversation. Other than occasionally swearing by Stendarr he tended to leave the Divines out of things.

The Companion shrugged again. "No one's all bad. Doesn't mean they don't need to die, but you saw enough in him to let him get a child on you."

She winced, "That was an accident." Abruptly, it occurred to her what he hadn't said. "Wait, does that mean you still—"

He scowled at her. "Do you even remember how cold you used to get before we became bedmates? Winter is coming on, woman, and we don't have time for you to hug the fire every morning until you're thawed enough to move."

"Uh," she said intelligently, blinking at his line of reasoning.

"Besides," he added, calming a little, "I've always been your friend first and your bedmate second. We're a bit more friendly than your average friends but still, just friends. For Vil's sake I don't think we should be too friendly while he's around, but I'm not going to leave your half-elf Imperial butt to freeze."

"Well…all right then," she finally got out.

"Right," Farkas nodded. "Now come here and give me a hug. You look freezing."

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**Ah, Farkas. Gotta love that big oaf. :D I always thought he was smarter than most people give him credit for, but he's still rather uncomplicated in his reasoning. By choice, I think. It's so easy to clutter up your decisions with extraneous data, and he just shrugs if off. Anyways, enough about Farkas. **

**Long week for me. My boss called me last Thursday and was like "You need to work this weekend." Me: "Okay." My boss: "In Ohio." Me: "...Are you serious?" (I actually asked that. Granted, she called in the morning before I'd had coffee, but I really should learn not to say stuff like that to my boss.) So I went to my home state to work this last weekend, then stayed at my parents for the next two days. :) It was good to see them again (they're getting kookier, I swear). I would have stayed the rest of the week, since my boss was nice enough to tell me I wasn't needed until Saturday again, but bad weather was coming towards their house and my car is very little. I didn't want to have to dig my way out of a two hundred foot driveway, then a country road that won't be plowed until...Alright, they'll probably never get to it. I'm pretty sure the local farmers take care of it. **

**In chin news, my boyfriend bought them giant hamster balls since they keep getting out of their designated running area to hide behind the washing machine, or (once) in my clothes closet eating my sweaters. One of them froze up completely, terrified. We'd try to give her a little push so she would get the idea, but she sort of rolled around inside the ball, all confused. I felt terrible. The other one, however, pretty much went "OMFG, it's a giant force field! I am INVINCIBLE! _Vrrroooommm!"_ and ran around the house bouncing off things on purpose. It looked like a team of ghosts was playing soccer in my living room.**

**Thank you, everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome, faves and watchers! Glad to have you along for the ride.**

**Reader: There will be a Thalmor to deal with, but I'm afraid there will be no familial relations to Ysmir. I have to end this fic sometime, after all. I've only been able to kill the Dark Brotherhood once, and I nearly cried doing it. Mostly, if I don't want to be an assassin, I never go to the Sanctuary. I'll have to check those out. I meant to do it before I posted this, but I've been filling out government paperwork. -_- I'll let you know what I think.**

**Wicked Lullaby: I think you just outted yourself as a DB fan. :P I always thought this as well. I mean, it has to be bad for business, Assassin A going all Vengeance on Assassin B because his contract happened to be Assassin A's bro. At the beginning, Aventus will be a bit of the white sheep of the Family, but he'll be all right.**

**Vergil 1989: Mostly, he was thinking "They'll keep coming after us until Ysmir or everyone else is dead. I have a chance to stop this. Oh, shit." Ysmir...well, she got a note. :D There will be roaring, raging emotions. There might be Shouting. **

**Wynni: _"Most of the time I try and stay away from my dad and Britte, the beating's the same from either one of them."_ Sissel's in-game dialogue. _"I had a dream that there was a good dragon. He was old and gray, but he wasn't scary."_ Sissel's other in-game dialogue. :D For now, Aventus is DB and likely to stay there for a good long while, given that someone probably paid good money to have Ysmir taken out, and he has to pay them back. As for the kids fighting...Aventus isn't the only one who gets the opportunity to Take a Level in Badass. Or, sadly, related tropes.**

**Nax: Babette will be very helpful to Aventus in the first few weeks in the Sanctuary, but things are going to be hard on him, regardless. **

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**Next Week: Miraak's Steward Turinmar continues in his search for information about the Last Dragonborn. Oh, and shit hits the fan. **


	49. Chapter 49: Under the Gaze of Talos

It had been snowing all day. A wet, clumping kind of snow that obscured everything and made it hard to move forward, and even harder to see the seemingly endless wolves and ice wraiths that inhabited this ridiculous mountain the Nords seemed to adore. Turinmar paused, looking out over the side of the mountain the humans called the "Throat of the World." Bizarre name. Was the world itself a head then? Did they mean throat as in neck, or was it just because these strange Greybeards, supposed masters of the power of the Voice, resided here, and the throat was where people spoke from? He didn't see how anyone who wasn't a dragon or a Dragonborn could truly be a master of the Voice, not like his Lord Miraak, but neither his liege nor the Nords amongst his followers seemed to find this heretical in any way.

Nothing but lingering, grey clouds and more fat flakes of white met his gaze. He imagined he could step right off the mountain and not have anything look any different until he hit the ground. The Dunmer shuddered, flicking his collar up in a vain attempt to protect his ears. Who would have thought he'd be missing ash flying through the air? At least that was warm.

Who put a building up this high, anyway? He could see where a religious order might want solitude, but this land was filled with wide-open, uninhabited places that were worlds more hospitable than this. Trust Nords to see the highest mountain in the world and declare they wanted to put their home at the very top. He hoped they'd quarried the rock from the very top, too, but he could see them hauling it up just to build character.

He hadn't met many Nords other than the cultists before coming to Skyrim on this little venture, but he had long since realized that stubbornness was not a trait exclusive to Miraak and Dorte. Actually, considering some of the people he'd met from the moment he stepped off the Northern Maiden in Windhelm, those two showed admirable restraint. Most of their kinsmen seemed to revel in their stubbornness to the woeful determent of common sense. He understood that they supposedly went to some kind of paradise if they died bravely, but that seemed to instill some sort of suicidal notion that any plan or tactic other than "smash them or die trying" was dishonorable. Most of them didn't even know how to heal themselves, and had reacted with undisguised horror when he'd asked. That was just plain stupid. Weren't the Skaal some ancient breed of Nord? They didn't seem to think magic was evil, but the Nords here seemed to regard it as some kind of disease.

They acted as if elves had some kind of disease as well. And many of them in Windhelm had reacted with outright hostility when he'd asked about the Dragonborn, as if he meant to murder her in her sleep. Only a halting story about being a scholar wishing to write a book about the hero of the age had stopped that, and even then they hadn't seemed terribly friendly. He'd managed to get out that she was not a Nord, but she was honorable, she'd saved the world from something called a World Eater, she'd gone to the afterlife but not died, and it had all started when she was called by the Greybeards. So that was where he was beginning his search in earnest, at the monastery known as High Hrothgar.

Of course, he hadn't expected it to be so cursedly far away, nor that he'd get so hopelessly lost trying to get there. On a brighter note, he hadn't gotten this much practice in his Destruction skills for years. He was a bit rusty.

A familiar growling up ahead heralded yet another ice wolf. With a tired sigh he flung a Fire Rune in its path before it charged him, and had the pleasure of seeing it not only set the rune off, but go sailing over the side of the mountain with a distressed howl that diminished with distance. He already had gotten more than enough wolf bites this day, thank-you-very-much. Sniffing a bit in combined cold and disgust, Turinmar climbed higher, doubting himself.

Was he right to dig into the affairs of his master? He had declared that the Dragonborn wasn't their enemy, but she wasn't doing them any good, either. His steward wasn't the only one wondering why he left her alive, and there had even been one or two whispers—quickly hushed—that for some reason he _couldn't _kill her. Now that he knew she had killed a dragon god, Turinmar understood how someone could think that. But Miraak had assured Turinmar that he could kill the Dragonborn if he wished to, which meant that for some reason he wanted her alive. Why?

The wind blasted that thought right out of his head, roaring around the mountain like an avalanche and leaching all the heat from his body. He whimpered a curse, calling fire to his palms and cupping them over the exposed points of his ears. He'd be lucky to get off this mountain without them falling off, and with that thought, he considered heading back down.

Light up ahead. Hurrying his steps as much as the snow allowed, he pushed through, closing his eyes against the wet mist that seemed to linger on the path. Just as abruptly as it appeared, though, it was gone, and the world was strangely hushed.

Turinmar opened his eyes and gasped.

He was above the clouds, where only dragons and Aedra were supposed to reside. He could see for miles, a great field of white and grey clouds roiling like boiling water in a kettle. It was beautiful, and he actually considered staying the night above the clouds to see what the aurora looked like from here. The sun was beginning to go down, putting it about dinner time by his reckoning, so he may not have a choice in the matter.

The Dunmer found himself smiling. This then, he decided, was why the Nords loved this mountain. The peace, the beauty, the stillness. Even he could learn to love a place like this.

An unearthly roar filled the air, and he shied back, glancing up and readying a defensive spell. Above him, the mountain rose to what must be a dizzying height, but that wasn't what got his attention. A massive grey dragon with raggedy wings soared into view, and Turinmar felt his mouth go dry with dread and awe. He'd never seen one so close. The beast sailed in front of the sun, uttering another blood-curdling cry, then headed west, out of sight in mere moments.

He sagged to his knees in the snow. _This _was what Miraak and that woman fought on a regular basis? What they shared kinship with, even more than the humans they appeared to be? He'd seen them before, of course, but from a distance one did not get the impact. The shine and shadows of hundreds of armored scales, the wickedly curved horns and cruel teeth, the corded muscles moving beneath the surface strong enough to support them and move the great breadth of their wings.

No wonder Miraak was impatient with the lesser cultists. He was related to a creature that would casually have them for breakfast.

Turinmar shook his head, forcing himself to rise. No. Dragons were known for their cruelty, and though he could be quite cold, Miraak had never been cruel—to him, anyway. He owned the man-turned-Daedra his life, and his niece's life, and in the back of his mind where it daren't come out, he considered him a friend.

His mind turned to the first time he had seen the former Dragon Priest as he continued his trudge up the aptly named stairs. He and Iriel had been hiding, cowering in the corner of the library of his then-lord's home, listening to Turinmar's sister fight and die with the daedra outside the locked door. There had been no warning, just screams from outside and suddenly creatures beating in the doors and windows, streaming from an Oblivion Gate.

Turinmar was just a bookkeeper. His sister, his bright, beautiful sister, she was the mage. She'd shoved her little girl into his arms and told him to bar the door and hide while she held them off. But she'd fallen, he'd known her last cry when he heard it, covering Iriel's ears as best he could as the child clung to him and her doll, terrified into silence.

A portal quite unlike what he had heard the gates described as had opened right into the room, and Turinmar had thought they were doomed. Shoving Iriel behind him, he'd readied his meager magic and prepared to die.

Strange, netch-like creatures had glided through the portal, not sparing them so much as a glance as they systematically began stripping the room of every rare book, every scroll or journal that his scholarly lord had managed to collect. Turinmar had watched with dumbfoundment, realizing that someone or something was using the wanton death outside to rob the place.

Iriel had clutched his leg fiercely and his gaze had gone back to the portal as a man stepped out, human by the breadth of his shoulders, wearing a mask reminiscent of the strange daedra. Turinmar hadn't been able to read what he was thinking behind the mask, but the weight of his gaze had held him frozen. Then the daedra outside had pounded on the door and Iriel had whimpered, drawing the man's gaze downward, then back up to the pitiful fire and frost wreathing his hands.

Finally, the figure had spoken, his voice low and commanding. "Are you planning to fight me?" he'd asked, sounding torn between irritation and amusement.

"Is your plan to kill us?" Turinmar had retorted, trying to sound brave. He hadn't managed as well as he'd liked, but he could feel Iriel's fingers tugging at his robes as she shook her head frantically.

"I have no care for you," the man had said dismissively, waving off their fates with a flick of his wrist. "I am here only for the knowledge your master accumulated."

"Much good it did him," the elf noted bitterly, reaching down to reassure his niece. Once again the stranger's eyes passed over her, as if wondering why she was there of all places, but he didn't say anything. Behind him, the netch-like daedra began taking stacks of books back through the portal.

"Are you the keeper of this library?" he'd asked after a moment of surveying the scene.

Turinmar shook his head. "No, my sister…my sister was."

"Where are the rarest volumes?" he'd asked, and Turinmar was impressed that he'd known enough about the collection to know that this wasn't the extent of it.

There was no point in protecting them anymore. The moment the creatures outside got in they would all be destroyed anyway. If he couldn't save himself or Iriel, he could at least save the books his sister loved so much. Turinmar went over to a shelf, pulling a ladder to the one immediately next to it so that it wasn't in the way, climbed it and turned the statue of a goat near the top. He'd always hated that statue; its eyes seemed to follow whoever was walking in front of it, and he suspected it was carved from a soul gem.

The shelf swung outward a bit and the man strode forward, pulling it open. "A locked door," he noted calmly as the screaming grew closer. He cast a spell at it, then again, but it had been protected from all arcane methods of entry.

"Liri—the Librarian has the key," Turinmar had told him, picking up Iriel from where she had cowered by the bottom of a shelf, watching the systematic looting of the place with wide red eyes.

"I see. And she is where?" the imposing man asked.

Turinmar nodded to the door. "Just outside," he'd replied, grief evident.

The mask turned toward the door, "Ah," was all he'd said.

Iriel whimpered, hiding her face in his neck as he held her. "You will take good care of them, right?" Turinmar asked hopelessly, and the mask turned back to him, studying him. "The books? They," he paused, holding Iriel closer, "they'll be all that's left of her."

After a moment, the voice asked, "What is it you do here?"

Turinmar shrugged. "I'm a bookkeeper, a record keeper."

"Accounts and histories," the man said, his tone giving no clue what he made of this.

The Dunmer nodded. "And research."

"Ah," he said again, then nodded to the room. "Make yourself useful. I may even forget to leave you behind," he said, striding to the door and drawing a sword.

They'd spent two days in Apocrypha, long enough for Iriel to forget how to speak and for him to decide he never wanted to go there again. He'd once thoughtlessly asked their rescuer why he didn't stay on the other side when he left, and was shocked to learn that even if the portal closed without him, the moment it vanished Miraak would be pulled back to Apocrypha.

Turinmar had pledged then and there to help him escape, even if it took all his elven life. Miraak had been doubtful at first, but it was plain the Dunmer was quite serious. The next day, they had woken to find themselves on Nirn, in the middle of a ruined temple that the nearby Nords told him belonged to someone they called the Great Betrayer.

It was then that he knew what he had to do. Iriel had never fully forgiven him for it, leaving when she reached her majority to travel to Cyrodiil and become a priestess to the Nine, who could bar the Daedra that had destroyed her childhood from ever entering this world. She still wrote; she hadn't abandoned him, but she wouldn't have anything to do with his self-imposed service to Miraak.

A dark form peeking through the sheets of snow caught his attention. Was that a building up ahead? Yes, thank the Aedra. Finally an end in sight!

That hope came crashing down when a little Redguard boy (in the center of Nordom, no less) answered the door, told him apologetically that the Greybeards only let certain people in, and shut the door again. Turinmar hadn't even gotten a chance to ask him about the Dragonborn, and no one answered his further knocks.

Dratted Nords. He'd climbed all this way for nothing.

He was only just past the statue of Tiber Septim when someone stopped him, however.

"Wait! Wait up!"

Turinmar halted, turning in surprise. Wasn't this a monastery? What was a little girl doing in a monastery? His eyes widened even more when he caught sight of her, something about the shape of her face, the curl of her lips, setting a stirring of unease in his stomach. "Yes?" he asked her, keeping his voice steady.

"Hello," she smiled hugely at him as she caught her breath. "Are you a priest? Alesan said a priest was at the door but once he said you were a Dark Elf Arngeir said he doubted you were a priest of the Nine but who else is there to be a priest to? Anyway, can you do magic?"

He nodded, staring at her. She didn't seem to notice as she nattered on. "Oh, good. On the way up here Auntie Aela got hit in the face by a troll and Argis had to give her all his potions and now we don't have anymore. I said that wasn't a big deal since the Greybeards could just heal people, but apparently they don't heal people and there's no Shout for making people better. Alesan says he's no good at magic but I've never tried it so can you show me how to heal people?"

She had his face. Turinmar could see him in the curve of her brow, the shape of her lips and cheekbones, the color of her hair—though the thought of Miraak with such perfectly coiled ringlets almost made him giggle hysterically. There were differences. The shape of her nose, the slight tilt to her violet eyes…Oh, gods. He needed to sit down.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly as he sat in the snow, legs refusing to hold him. "You don't need healing, do you? Because I can't do it yet."

"No," he said faintly. "No, I can heal myself. What's your name?"

"Darva," she said brightly, holding out her hand, which he took reflexively then dropped as if the touch had burned him. "People call me Honey-Bee."

"Who…who is your mother?" he asked, swallowing. "What is her name?"

"Ysmir. She's the Dragonborn," she added proudly.

"Yes I…I thought so," he stated weakly. "And…your father?"

That seemed to stump her. "I…I have two papas, but I've never called them 'father,'" she said, as if wondering why for the very first time. Shrugging it off, she told him their names were Vilkas and Farkas, they were Companions and wasn't that neat? Auntie Aela was a Companion too and now Argis was going to be a Companion because he was kissing Auntie and didn't that mean he had to join?

"Darva!"

The talk dried up abruptly as the girl's expression changed to one of annoyance. "That's my brother," she told him. "He's probably going to take me back. Can you show me how to heal really quick?"

Turinmar shook his head, completely at a loss for how to handle this. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Five," she said, holding up the correct number of fingers for him. "But I'll be six soon!" she added defensively.

Almost six. So conceived around six years ago. That was when the Dragonborn attacked the temple. Good gods.

No wonder he hadn't wanted her killed.

"You're too young," he told her as she gazed at him hopefully, expectantly. She had her father's confidence that whatever she wanted would be done, it seemed. "You won't be able to access your magicka for a few more years, you know."

"Awwwww!" she groaned, face falling as the little Redguard boy ran up, looking just as annoyed as she had.

"Darva! I am so sorry," he told Turinmar, grabbing the girl's hand. A Redguard, her brother? Vilkas and Farkas sounded like Nord names, not Redguard. Perhaps he was a fosterling of some sort? Or perhaps…Turinmar chased the thought away. It was no business of his what that woman did with her life.

"It's quite all right," the Dunmer replied.

"Darva, what have we told you about bothering strangers?" he hissed, pulling the girl back toward the building.

"I wasn't bothering him!" she replied in affront as she glanced back at him. Her entire expression changed in an instant to one of alarm. "Look out!"

Too late Turinmar heard the creak of boots in snow. He turned just in time for a well-armored man to throw him aside, going for the children. Reflexively, he called up Ancestor's Wrath, surprising the man and sending him jumping back, cursing as his strange armor steamed in the cold.

"Run!" the Dunmer cried, standing and setting a line of runes between them and the half dozen or so fighters. They all wore that armor of overlapping, interconnected pieces of steel rather than plates of it, and carried long curved swords. The Redguard boy half-dragged the child that must be his lord's back toward the monastery, eyes wide and frightened. The girl seemed to want to go back and help him—definitely a Nord child. Only a Nord would be that foolishly heroic so young.

The warriors were setting off his runes with arrows, sending snow flying as he pelted after the children. Willing or not, the Greybeards were letting him in that building this time, at least until these fighters went away!

Turinmar jerked as the first arrow hit him, staggering to a halt. The second sent him to his knees. Healing magic flared around him, but there wasn't much he could do until someone pulled the damned things out of his back.

The Redguard boy was abruptly at his side, pulling him up with surprising strength and helping him move forward. "Darva, do you think you can delay them a bit?" he asked the girl, who nodded, face going from horrified to determined in an instant. That look confirmed it; she was definitely Miraak's.

Whirling in a splay of honey-blond curls, the girl set herself as the warriors raced toward them, waiting until they were close. _"Fus Ro Dah!"_

The sound that came out of that tiny frame sent hardened fighters flying backwards, some of them crashing into rock formations and one into the statue of Tiber Septim, causing the girl to yelp out "Sorry, Talos!" before joining them, pulling Turinmar's arm to try to get him to go faster.

"Go," he told them, trying to push them away. He'd be damned if he would let Miraak's child come to harm trying to protect him. "I'll…hold them."

"No!" Darva snapped, her voice a rasp.

Running steps in the snow behind them, then someone grabbed the back of his robes and flung him away. A Nord man, with eyes like flint and a square jaw. Turinmar gasped as one of the arrows broke, the head lodging itself further into his flesh. His vision darkened, but he sent another healing spell flaring through him before firing a Freeze spell at the man.

"Go!" he called. One last glance at him and the children ran while the spell slowed their attacker's movements.

The net came from nowhere.

_"Fus!"_ the boy yelled, sending it billowing away as the effects of the Freeze spell wore off. The man darted forward and grabbed the boy, tucking him under one arm as he reached for Darva.

"Let go of my brother!" she shrieked, darting in and banging on his armored legs with bare little fists. The Nord cuffed her and pulled her up when she fell back, dazed, throwing her over his shoulder before joining the group of them, tossing them before a short Breton woman who looked them over with shining eyes.

"Bring them both," she said shortly, turning.

"What about this one, Grand Mistress?" the Nord asked as his fellows tied and gagged the children, standing over Turinmar with a stony expression.

She glanced at him. "He's just a pilgrim, Garrot. Leave him."

Garrot grunted and kicked Turinmar in the stomach for good measure before following. There was nothing Turinmar could do but watch as they went down the mountain and out of sight. Healing flaring as constantly as he could manage it, he began to crawl. The monastery seemed to get further away the more he tried to reach it, and the day turned to night and the aurora came out, but he couldn't even see its beauty. He had to get there. Someone had just taken Lord Miraak's daughter, and someone had to know. He might not make it, but someone had to know. Her mother was the Dragonborn, defeater of a god, and they would tell her. She would get her daughter back. Their daughter back. If only he could just get there…

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Klimmek found him at the base of the monastery stairs in the morning.

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**Hello, people. Weird week for me. I may be working a lot more in the coming weeks, so I may have to move to updating every other week, rather than once a week. :/**

**Thank you everyone who reviewed! Welcome new favorites and followers!**

**bleachcreep21: Thank you. :) I was a difficult thing to do, since I really like their dynamic, but it was just too much of a stretch for Vil to let that go. And I'm always up for giving Vilkas a hug, whether he needs one or not. ;)**

**Guest: You make a valid point. I shall endeavor to find some less all-encompassing clichés.**

**Vergil1989: I wouldn't go so far as to say they're all right with it as to say they realize it's not something she could help. After all, were it up to Vilkas he wouldn't be in love with a polyamorous mage with marriage issues. Farkas, however, pretty much follows the philosophy of "it is what it is."**

**Wicked Lullaby: Nazir is most definitely punny. Thanks. I love writing the twins. :)**

**Wynni: No, this is just Vilkas being too noble. His heart is already in little furry pieces. Daedra don't tend to mess with Sithis's followers that much, from what I could tell-Sithis being their dad and all.**

**Nax: *uses creepy voice* Wooooooooh! lol. Nax, do you have a thing for bad guys? :P Yeah, Ysmir finally came out and admitted it. She's not planning on doing anything about it, because "Miraak=bad=trouble=DO NOT GO THERE" as far as our hero is concerned. She wants what is best for her children, and even if having a bad guy around Darva wasn't asking for trouble, Darva isn't her only child, and she's not about to have someone around who only pays attention to one of her children. Favoritism and all that.**

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**Next Week: A check-in with Runa and the Brats, then on to horrific and traumatizing self discovery!**


	50. Chapter 50: Frost

Runa stared out over the plains below, her head resting on her folded arms on the ancient stone barrier before her. It was night, and the stars were unusually clear and bright, with barely a cloud in the sky and no aurora to speak of. The moons were dark, and only visible as a dead space in the great sky, each speared by one of the jagged peaks of the Reach, as if each point of rock had spread blackness where it touched. Like a pen dipped in water, or a bloodstain spreading.

Aventus hadn't come back. Melka had solemnly told her that he probably never would, adding that there was really no escape for those called to Sithis, that they would come one way or another. She'd shuddered at the thought, counting herself fortunate that her brother hadn't simply died if that were the case. Feeling the increasing need to break her promise and open the letter he had given her, Runa had given it to Serana for safekeeping. The woman had tried to comfort her—even Illia had tried—but Runa had shrunk away. She'd already shown weakness unbefitting a Companion, she thought, although how Aela would react to this, she couldn't fathom. So she'd mostly stayed out of the way, just scrubbing everything to within an inch of its life the way she used to when things got bad at Honorhall. Melka at least seemed to understand and let her be, not trying to cosset her or get her to talk about it.

The girl took a deep breath, closing out the sight of the night, unable to stop wondering what was out in it. Before, the thought of the dangers had both scared and invigorated her, knowing that one day she would be fighting those who hid in the night with her Shield-Siblings by her side. Now, she was simply sad. Aventus was one of those things now, as was Babette, although Runa couldn't summon the same worry for the girl anymore, seeing as she was probably the one who had arranged the deal to drag Aventus into the Brotherhood with her.

Why had he taken it? Couldn't he have thought of something else? What, she wasn't sure, but her mind kept insisting that there must have been another way, another path. Did he even stop to _think_ before accepting this daedra's bargain?

Would she have taken it?

The thought stopped her cold, halting her thoughts as effectively as a splash of ice water. If she had a chance to save their Mother, and to ensure that nothing like what happened at the house could reoccur, would she have done it?

The better question was probably would she have been able to say no.

But…Ysmir had been dealing with the assassins for years. They had probably used poison before, too—Ysmir wore an amulet protecting her from such things. She may have been able to ward them off indefinitely, provided they didn't goad her into doing something stupid. Was it only because they had Babette that the Brotherhood had come after the family, or were they simply getting desperate? Or was that their new plan, to eliminate all Ysmir cared about so she would be less careful, more likely to make a fatal error?

It was a chilling revelation that this just might be the case, making her feel as if the blood in her veins had turned as icy as the frost-coated rock she leaned against. Admittedly, she didn't know a whole lot about the Dark Brotherhood. If they would accept a contract to kill an innocent person, what was to stop them from killing bystanders, or potential witnesses, to carry out that contract? They might very well go around murdering entire families all the time, if that was what it took to achieve their goal.

Gasping, she told herself as sternly as she could that Companions—even future Companions—didn't get ill at the thought of something. Retching over the side of the lookout wouldn't help, and would probably make her feel worse. She didn't feel like a Companion right now, though. She just felt like a girl who'd had her world irrevocably changed. Again.

"Runa?"

She gasped and whirled, taking up a defensive stance without thinking about it. Frothar blinked, his face mostly hidden in shadow, but her eyes were better adjusted than his, so he didn't seem to notice that she had been crying. "Yes?" she asked, trying to sound cheerful. There was still the ruse, after all, even if she hadn't been able to bring herself to join the others over the last two days.

Only there was no Aventus to play bad guard to her good, now. There was only her.

"You…" Frothar sighed, sounding weary. "You don't need to do that, Runa. I know what you've been doing these last couple of days. We all do."

"You don't know anything," she mumbled, turning away.

There was a moment before he spoke. "He's gone, isn't he? Ventis, I mean."

Runa bowed her head, gritting her teeth against the urge to cry, hands curling into tight fists that drove her short nails into her palms. "Yes."

"Did she…eat him?" he asked, sounding quite as if the question were wrung from him unwillingly.

Oh, gods. What if Babette turned him? He might be able to retain some semblance of honor until his debt was paid off if he was allowed to be himself, but if he became a vampire? Even Miss Serana didn't show any remorse for those she ate and…and vampires were undead. Fighting undead was definitely something Companions were supposed to do. She moaned, hands moving to cover her face as she shook her head in denial, wishing with all her heart that Ysmir and Aela were there.

"I don't know what to do," she found herself whispering. "How to act. I just…" to her horror, she broke down, but most of her didn't apparently care because she couldn't get herself to stop. No. Not in front of Frothar—not in front of anyone! If she couldn't actually be as strong as she wanted to be yet, at least she could pretend to be. She couldn't do that if she started crying in front of people!

Things were suddenly much warmer as Frothar hugged her, so awkwardly she wondered when the last time he had done this was. Still, she somehow ended up wailing into his front with her hands clutching his shirt, wondering in the back of her mind if he had always been this tall or if he had unaccountably grown in the last two days. She mostly saw him from a distance or sitting down…but he was muttering something that caught her attention.

"What?" she croaked, finally able to still her caterwauling to look up at him a bit. The night air froze his shirt where her face had been the moment she stepped back and she winced a little, breaking icy little tears off her own cheeks.

"I said I'll look after you, if you want," he said, suddenly shy. "My father will send someone to get us, and I won't let them leave you behind. And I…I know Ventis meant a lot to you. He was a bit of a cretin to us most of the time, but he was always nice to you. Father always says there's no shame in mourning those you…you love, so if you need to be alone or something, we'll do our best to cover you so that Hag doesn't see."

Runa was shocked out of tears as she realized what he—and presumably everyone else—thought. "Av—Ventis and I weren't…we…it wasn't…" she sighed, stepping back and looking out over the night. "We'd been through a lot together," she finally explained, lamely, chafing her arms against the cold. "There was…another Hag once, who treated us worse than you could imagine. She'd taunt us and beat us and…well. Mother told me that people who go through things form bonds. It wasn't romantic or anything; quite the opposite. He was my brother. He always will be my brother." No matter what, she added silently, firming.

"Oh, good," he muttered, but only looked at her blandly when she shot him a startled look of inquiry. "We should probably get inside," he added, louder. "Your skin's like ice."

She nodded, shoulders sagging. "Back to it, I suppose," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, moving around her to open the door for her. He always did that, even though she was perfectly capable of opening a door for herself, especially since she wasn't carrying anything.

She halted just inside the door, seeing the other children waiting for her. "What is this?" she managed, quite startled.

Braith took four steps forward and enfolded her in a hug. "We've got you," she said. "We've got you and we'll all go home together."

Runa looked up, seeing Lars nod with a determined expression, Dagny looking twice as tearful as herself, bandaged hands held close, and even Nelkir looking not entirely pessimistic. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah," she said, hands going to return the Redguard's hug. "We will."

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Darva had never felt so stiff in all her life. There was a horse beneath her, trotting at an uncomfortable pace, and someone behind her in armor that dug into her backside and shoulder. She groaned, opening her eyes slowly. The horse was brown. The landscape looked like something out of one of those scary stories of Oblivion; the ground gray and cracked, spewing steam from long fissures. They were going uphill, affording her a good view of the crazed landscape, dotted with bright blue-green pools of water covered with clouds of steam, table-like rock formations of similar color, and a mammoth walking in the distance. Closer to her, the rocks were littered with bones, some still with flesh on them. As she watched, a skeever hissed at the horse, darted in to grab one of the fleshy bones and scuttled away, glaring at them balefully. The girl edge away from it, but her hands seemed to be tied to the pommel, so she couldn't go far.

"About time you woke up," a woman said.

Darva turned to look up at the woman behind her. Blond, with cold blue eyes and sharp features. Her skin was tanned with sun, though Darva could feel the tightness of a sunburn across her own nose and cheeks. Those eyes scanned the landscape again before coming back to her, assessing her critically. "Are you Dragonborn?" the woman asked abruptly.

Well…yes, but Darva had this horrible thought that if she told the woman that, she wouldn't let her go. "My Momma is," she said instead. Her voice was soft, even though she had spoken normally. Her throat felt distinctly odd, and her mouth was filled with a strange, sickly sweet flavor, as if she had drank some juice just going off. She didn't remember drinking anything, though. In fact the last thing she remembered…she shivered, wanting horribly to cry but not wanting to in front of this woman. Later. Later she would cry and call Bormah and maybe he could get them out of there. Only…Bormah didn't want to meet her siblings. Maybe he wouldn't' want to take Alesan.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. Ysmir," she said the name like the Papas said four-letter words after they dropped something. "Where did you come from, hm? The boy she grabbed out of Dawnstar, but I never found where she picked you up."

Darva looked down hastily. The woman hadn't really gotten a good look at her yet, she guessed, but Ysmir had told her that their eyes were unusual in humans, that it was a family trait. Somehow, she doubted the woman would think she was a foundling if she saw she and Ysmir shared the same eyes.

"Not going to answer?" the woman asked, sounding almost amused. "She did the same thing, you know, when I asked her where she came from. Just looked away and wouldn't answer. Should have known something was up the moment she did that." The horse navigated around a sabercat skeleton and the woman sighed. "Still, whatever she was, the Thalmor are definitely trying to kill her now."

The girl wasn't sure who the Thalmor were—though the image of her mother standing over a freshly dead elf with long dark robes and telling her to get inside came to mind—but if they thought they were going to hurt her Momma they had another think coming. Her Momma was strong, and beautiful, and brave, and the most wonderful person alive, and she could defeat anything. Even if she couldn't for some reason, Bormah cared about her, and he had told her that he always looked after those he cared about. Between them, no snotty elf in stupid robes stood a chance.

This stern woman with hard eyes didn't stand a chance, either, Darva thought, slanting a glance her way. "What do you want?" the girl finally asked her, unable to bear the silence any longer.

The woman sighed. "I want the Dragonborn to wake up and return to her duty, but I've long resigned myself to that not happening. So, I guess I want a Dragonborn who will fulfil their destiny."

"What destiny?" she asked as they topped the ridge. "Who's singing?"

"What?" the woman asked, startled enough to really look at the child before her, but all she saw was the back of her curly head, swinging back and forth as if she had flies plaguing her.

"Grand Mistress Delphine," a man said formally, walking over and giving a little solute.

Delphine nodded back to him. "What have we got?"

The man sighed. "It took some doing, but we finally brought it down. Rognor and Tervel sliced up its wings when it swooped low, but it stepped on Tervel before he could get out of the way. That Jori girl was what finally killed it, though I was sure it was going to eat her. Sent her back to the Temple about an hour ago with the casualty lists, wounded, and rendering of the Word Wall."

"How many casualties?" she asked, sliding down from her horse.

"Two dead, twice that seriously wounded, though only one needed to go back to Temple. The rest made do with healing potions." He paused, gazing at the little girl still in the saddle, staring at the dead dragon the same way an ordinary child might the corpse of a friend or neighbor; shock, dismay, nausea. "Grand Mistress, if I may, why are there children here?"

Delphine smiled, unknotting the rope that held the girl's wrists to the pommel. "If the gods favor us, you'll see in a moment."

Garrot was already bringing the boy toward the carcass, but all that happened was the boy lost whatever was in his stomach at the sight of all the blood. Delphine spared a moment in thanks that the human corpses were already laid out and wrapped for transport as she lifted the child down.

"No!" the girl cried when she tried to take her hand and drag her toward the corpse. Her eyes were wide and horrified and…violet.

Delphine froze, staring down at the child uselessly trying to rip her hand out of her gauntleted grasp. After a moment she barked a laugh. "Well, I'll be. She didn't _find_ you anywhere, did she?" she surmised, and the little girl stopped struggling to gaze up at her like she'd been caught doing something bad. Delphine knelt to speak to her better. "Come. Let me show you what she's been keeping from you," she said, picking the panicked child up and carrying her to the dragon.

"No," the girl said, hiding her face in Delphine's shoulder. "I don't want to…" What, she wasn't sure. She only knew she wanted to stay as far away from that corpse as possible.

Five steps from the thing, and it began to burn. The armored men and women gasped and murmured, some cheered as light and sound filled the air. Darva screamed. Heat and light filled her, soaking through her skin and leaving her dizzy as it swept through her, awash in things she'd never felt. Pleasure and pain and the sensation of wings and then it was gone, leaving her empty save for something that clawed desperately in her mind, howling and raging. She gasped, clinging to the cruel person's neck but she just wanted someone to hold her. Someone else, but…Darva wasn't accustomed to loneliness. The sense of loss that swept through her was the most profound thing she'd ever felt in her entire life, eclipsing even the terror of being kidnapped.

The chanting that had been growing in her mind ever since they had reached the top of the hill swelled, and she realized the woman was walking. "Look up," the woman whispered, not able to hide the delight in her voice.

Darva looked, feeling as if she were being compelled to do so. Dovahzul covered the wall; _"Pah werid Sonaan Lunerio wen yuvon lovaas meyz fo het ko vulon." "Fo"_ blazed in her sight, binding itself with the new spark in her mind to form "frost." The desperate clawing in her mind subsided abruptly, and the girl quite felt as if she were about to be sick. Suddenly, Darva understood how her mother had learned to Shout, and why she had used to slay dragons.

It seemed even Ysmir did terrible things sometimes.

"What does it say, little one?" Delphine asked her, a huge smile on her face as she recognized the same look of understanding Ysmir had often gotten, standing near a Word Wall.

_"All praise Bard Lunerio whose golden music became frost here in night,"_ she read faintly, automatically. Her voice trembled, sounding nothing like a mighty Shout.

The woman seemed unsure how to react to that, "You can read all of that?" she asked with a faint frown, then seemed to shrug it off. "Ysmir has been teaching you some strange things. Don't worry; we'll teach you, too." Swinging around, Darva was shocked to see everyone staring at her, mingled expression of delight and admiration on their faces. Alesan only looked dismayed. Delphine grinned hugely, hefting the girl higher in her arms. "All hail the Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn!" the assemblage echoed madly, jumping and some throwing their helmets in the air, patting each other on the back or embracing.

"Why are they so happy?" Darva asked, uncertain.

"You made them happy," Delphine told her. "I'm Delphine, Grand Mistress of the Blades, and I will keep you safe from anyone who would hurt or corrupt you."

Darva wasn't sure what one said to that, and she wasn't entirely sure what "corrupt" meant, but Delphine didn't really give her a chance to respond anyway, striding back towards her horse. "Strip the bones and get the men ready to move out. It's time we do something about our oldest foe," she said to the man that had met them on the way up, tying Darva's hands back to the pommel before mounting behind her.

The man nodded, giving Darva an enthusiastic grin before the Grand Mistress of the Blades turned her horse, riding away from the lair amidst the cheers of her men, the new Dragonborn before her. Watching the passing bones as they descended, Darva realized that this was just the beginning, and began crying in earnest.

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**Hi, guys! I almost spit this into two different chapters, what with Runa's section ending on a hopeful note, and Darva's anything but. Each is still under two thousand words though, so I decided to leave them together. I know Darva's section was a lot more plot-advancing, but don't forget to let me know what you think of Runa's part! :P**

**20,000 views, guy! Thank you! ^_^**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! It's so nice to have so many conversations going every week! Welcome, those who favorited or followed! **

**Nax: Even if Miraak had never shown up, Darva's not exactly without father figures. That said, I wish my imaginary friends had taught me a real language! I understand the lure of a bad boy-look who my Dragonborn is paired with. There will most definitely be ass whooping, but perhaps not as you'd expect.**

**Wicked Lullaby: Turinmar is actually a little bit of a woobie. He doesn't really have it in him to be a villain, and Miraak actually likes this about him, because he knows Turinmar is loyal. That said, even loyal subjects occasionally overstep themselves or make life difficult. Look at the idiots who brought Ysmir's attention to him before he could escape. I knew Delphine was going to make a pain out of herself from the moment I decided to make this fiction, but I'm glad her actually doing so came as a surprise. I hope you enjoyed the Brats' reactions. **

**Vergil1989: Still hate me? **

**Wynni: In answer to your last question...maybe. But not over this. As to your first...yes, you see some very sorry Blades. Again, though, maybe not for the reason you think, or even which Blades you think. **

**Reader: No, they have no plans for imminent attacking Daedric Princes, because they don't know. Esbern doesn't quite believe that Miraak took old Hermy's place (though he does believe that Ysmir thinks she was telling the truth), and doesn't know Ysmir has any biological children, since she refers to all her kids as "my daughter" or "my son" without any qualifiers. Miraak's paternity literally never even occurred to him. He also has no idea that the new Dragonborn is a child at all, let alone Ysmir's. As for the rest of the Blades, they probably assume one of the Companions is the father. I did watch the videos! They were hilarious! Thank you for recommending them.**

**SuperYuuki: You probably won't get to this for a while, but I did want to input something. There is no way that such a sparsely populated country like Skyrim could support most of a race, and have provided as many Nords as are in Ulfric's army. Therefore, I sort of just headcannon that the NPCs seen in game are just the most prominent, or are the ones the Dragonborn interacts with the most, and that the cities are far larger and more densely populated. Otherwise, the entire continent of Tamriel has a huge inbreeding problem, and there are literally more undead than living, and more bandits than citizens. Ancient Viking settlements boasted hundreds to thousands of people; I figured Skyrim would be similar in population and adjusted accordingly. But yes, for an island the size of Solstiem, Miraak's city is getting quite large. The Dunmer are fairly uncomfortable with this.**

**If you skipped the last comment response, please read for population headcannon. **

**P.S. One of my chinchillas is sleeping in the exercise wheel right now. I just wanted to share. :)**

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**Next Week: Ysmir and the twins return to Whiterun to deal with the aftermath of the robbery and fetching of the Brats. **


	51. Chapter 51: Outside Whiterun

Valdimar was waiting at the stables in Whiterun with Jughead, just as she'd asked. Her relief at seeing him was palpable, as this had most definitely been the most awkward trip with the twins that she could remember. She was rather amused (and somewhat wary) to see that the person he was flirting with was none other than her usual courier, who seemed to be enjoying the conversation as much as Valdimar.

"Ah, there she is!" Valdimar exclaimed, looking up with a wide smile on his face.

"Oh good. I've been looking for you," the courier started, halting when she held up a hand, fitting a smile on her face as best she could.

"I know, I know. You have something you're supposed to deliver to my hands only. Is that your business slogan?" she asked, aware of the twins hanging back. They were supposed to pick up Aela and Argis to go check on how the Brats of Whiterun were doing, but if Jarl Season was beginning, they may be doing it without her if the summons was urgent enough. Why couldn't her life have gone topside earlier in the summer? Still, it barely looked like autumn today—the sun was shining with a brightness more common to Cyrodiil than Skyrim, lacking its usual feeling of thinness. The air was redolent with freshly mown hay, and warm enough she hadn't needed either her cloak or her coat. Perhaps she was finally adjusting to living in the north.

The courier laughed. "It is, actually. Whole family uses it, since our grandfather's time. Now, I got this from a pretty Dark Elf in Winterhold. Said it's from someone called Augie."

Her lips parted slightly as her eyes widened, snatching the letter and quickly ripping it open as the courier frowned, probably wondering if he was bringing her bad news. "I have to go to Winterhold," she announced, scanning the contents quickly.

"Something about Darva?" Vil asked quietly, but she shook her head.

"I don't know. Augie hates putting what he sees on paper," she told them, rolling the missive up and shoving it into her knapsack.

The twins sighed in unison. "Go," Farkas said. "We'll take care of…what we were going to take care of."

She smiled gratefully at them both. "Thanks. I'll try to be back as soon as I can, and send word if I can't."

"More business!" the courier enthused.

Ysmir shook her head, amused, and turned to Valdimar. "I need you to go to Markarth. There's a house there called—"

"Vlindrel Hall," he interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I know all your houses, my Thane. We all do. You told us about them when you gave us all keys, just in case."

Ysmir blushed. "Right. Well, there's a crate in the entranceway filled with dragon bones. I need you to pull out as many as you can carry and sell them. Then I need you to go to Lakeview and begin repairs. You'll probably need to hire workers, so I'd prefer if you did so from Riverwood. I have an account there with the blacksmith and general store. You'll also need supplies for a couple of weeks, because game is pretty scarce there at the moment. Unless, of course, you really like fish."

Vald frowned, his grave, puzzled glance darting between her and the twins. "Should I ask what happened?"

"We don't know what happened," she replied. "Just that someone—probably several someones—robbed the place, destroyed most of the furniture, and drove off the wildlife."

He whistled through the gap in his teeth as the courier gasped out "Someone robbed the _Dragonborn?"_ in as shocked a voice as she'd ever heard.

"Took most of your collectables, I take it," Valdimar stated, scratching Bandit's head as the dog leaned against his side, closing his eyes in bliss and completely at ease with the pair of werewolves not ten feet from him.

"I have ways of getting them back," she assured him. "Speaking of which…" turning to the courier, she handed him a coin purse and a few tightly sealed letters, "This needs to get to Brynjolf in Riften."

The courier's eyebrows shot up. _"The_ Brynjolf?" Obviously, the courier knew that selling potions of dubious nature was not the Nord's primary means of employment. Ysmir, of course, had met him when searching for Esbern, and done a little take-and-plant mission for him right there in the marketplace. They'd met since, of course, but not that either would admit to others.

Ysmir shrugged. "The others need to go to anyone you or he can think of that might be interested in buying rare weapons or armor. I want them to know what potential merchandise coming through their door was stolen, and just who it belongs to." The list was topped with the Champion's Cudgel, the Bloodskal Blade, most of her jeweled dragon claws, and miscellaneous Daedric artifacts. The first two she had worked damned hard to get, she collected the claws, and she was quite frankly scared of what would happen if the Daedra discovered she had let their artifacts get away from her.

As for the Elder Scrolls, there were only so many places a person could off-load those, but she highly doubted they would go through all the trouble to find the things if all they wanted was to sell them. Priceless items had a habit of being essentially worthless unless you had the right buyer already in mind. Most likely they needed to use them, which argued for the Thalmor, but they would have waited for her to return home to ambush her, rather than just stealing her Talos Shrine along with most everything else. They would also have waited to publicly arrest her before stripping her home—if they even were able to get away with that, since nothing else there violated the White Gold Concordant and she had children to inherit it. No, the answer was in the missing Shrine.

"Vil," she turned to the twins and jerked her head a bit to the side. Frowning a little, he followed. "I need to hire a Companion."

His eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Well borrowing you and Farkas, even Aela, when I need help is one thing, but someone else?"

He sighed, pushing his dark hair out of his face. It needed cut again, but somehow she doubted she'd be the one to do it this time. "Who do you need and why?"

"I need someone not associated with me to go to Skyhaven Temple. Someone young—Ria perhaps. I need them to come from the direction of Solitude and claim to be looking for their friend Jori."

Vilkas sighed again, exasperated. "Ysmir, you know Companions don't like deception."

She rolled her eyes. "That's why Ria would be perfect; she loves a good game. Jori is my housecarl, Jordis. They're about the same age and could conceivably be friends."

"You think the Blades are the ones that broke into your house?" he asked incredulously.

"If they aren't, they will have seen who did," she pointed out inarguably.

"Fine. I'll ask her," he conceded. "As long as it's strictly information-gathering." He looked almost taken aback and as if he felt distinctly odd when she handed him the appropriate amount of gold.

"Now, it's time I go," she said, walking back over to the others and tying her packs onto Jughead's saddle while the warhorse tried to lip her hair affectionately. "Who knows what might have happened in the few days it took for this to get to me?"

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* * *

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"You alright?" Farkas asked him after they watched Ysmir ride off.

"I'll be fine," he assured his twin, turning away. "Let's just get back to Jorrvaskr."

"Vald was pretty upset when I told him about the state of the house," Farkas changed the subject, sensitive to his twin's mood. Vil didn't warm up to people easily or quickly, and he was just as slow to heal from hurts. Farkas was pretty sure his brother would be all right, in time, but right now he was pretty raw. He didn't like seeing it. The sooner they could get back to work, the better.

"We all were," Vil countered. "We helped build that house. In that way, it belongs to us as much as it does to her."

"Vilkas! Farkas!"

The twins looked up as they rounded the wall to see Aela and Argis hurrying across the drawbridge, worried expressions on their faces. Farkas nearly groaned, and knew his brother was repressing the same urge. Vil just steeled himself and asked, "What's wrong now?"

"Sofie is missing," Argis answered for them both.

"What?" they chorused, aghast.

"For over two days," Aela put in, looking unhappy. "Apparently Kodlak had to make an emergency trip to Falkreath, and no one else thought to really look after her. Tilma thought she was with Danica over at the Temple, and Danica assumed she was staying in at Jorrvaskr. The last time anyone remembers seeing her was the day Kodlak left—three days ago—but no one knows for sure."

"Where were you two?" Vilkas asked, telling himself not to jump to conclusions even though he wanted to yell at someone. Regardless, he heard leather creaking as he subconsciously clenched his hands into fists. Aela's eyes flickered downward, but she didn't say anything.

"We were in the Reach," Argis informed him, eyes narrowing. "Kodlak sent us to retrieve a lost item that turned out to be a captive. We only just got back this afternoon."

"You joined?" Farkas asked, perking up considerably.

The housecarl shook his head. "Let's just say I'm considering it," he said, eyes shifting briefly to the woman beside him, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Sofie's trail is pretty cold, but I think I can track it," Aela told them, face grave. "The carriage driver said she asked to go to Eastmarch, so we were going to start heading in that direction. In the meantime, someone should probably go get the Brats. What with another child up and vanishing the entire town is in an uproar. Word is Balgruuf's been pacing the Great Porch like a caged bear."

"We'll resupply and head out tonight," Vilkas assured her. "There's still more than enough daylight to get some good distance in today."

"You could make better time," she grumbled. She still wasn't too thrilled with their decision to resist the Beast Blood. He hoped Argis took to it, because by their body language they had already made a pair of it. He wasn't quite sure he trusted Argis completely, yet, but he wished them well. At least, as much as he could at the moment. Something about seeing couples the last few days had made him want to break something.

"We'll get as far as we are able," he told her sternly, "Now go find our little girl." With that, he walked past them, heading into the city, thoughts reeling. It was too much, all at once. Ysmir, Darva, that bastard Miraak, and now Sofie was missing? Sweet, defenseless Sofie who hid behind him and held his hand when new people came around, who loved pretty things and forgot to remove all her pins when sewing? The thought of her all alone on the roads of Skyrim chilled his blood, and he nearly told Aela to switch, but the truth was that even without the Beast Blood she was a better tracker on her worst day than he was on his best.

They were still his children. It was his job to protect them. No matter where they came from or who their parents were, no matter what happened between him and Ysmir, they were his, and he was theirs.

Farkas caught up to him, grinning a bit. "Glad to know you settled that, at least," he said, and Vilkas knew instantly he wasn't talking about the conversation with Aela.

Vilkas shook his head. "On that, brother, there was never any doubt."

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* * *

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Ysmir glanced backwards briefly, watching the twins head under the watchtower of the city. This hadn't been an easy week, that was for certain. She had hoped her life was past being this exciting, but apparently not. Biting her lip slightly, she worried about what Augie had seen as the farms flew past. Was it something to do with Darva? Alduin? Or had he seen what had happened to that wretch Siddgeir and wanted to speak to her about it?

Passing a cart sitting idle by the side of the road, Jughead reared with an unhappy neigh as something small and red darted out from under his hooves. Ysmir tightened her legs around the warhorse's barrel, easily keeping her seat after years riding horses in Skyrim's unpredictable landscape.

"Eee!" the red blur cried out piteously from behind the cart. "Do not trample poor Cicero!"

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, sliding down and rounding the cart, only to stop and stare in surprise. On the other side of the cart was a jester, such as she hadn't seen since her youthful forays in Cyrodiil, complete with hat, kohl eyeliner and bright red lips. And hair.

The funny man peeked out from behind his arms and squealed excitedly, hopping up and dancing around her, cooing. "Red hair! The pretty traveler has red hair just like Cicero's! Dark red and shiny! Bloody red hair!"

"Well, I guess you're all right, then," she said, bemused as she watched him skip about her. She'd always been told her red hair came from her Imperial ancestors, but until today she'd never met anyone else not a Dunmer with so dark a shade, humans leaning more toward oranges and auburns. Aedra, she hoped they weren't related, though given that one of her ancestors had supposedly become the Madgod...

The man stopped mid-skip, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. "Cicero is in no way all right!" he declared, stamping his foot. "Cicero is having a _terrible_ day! He is stuck! Stuck, I tell you! With Mother, poor Mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still!"

Ysmir glanced around, wondering where the merryman's mother might be, but he answered that question when he scampered over to the large crate in the wagon, stroking the wood softly. "There, there, Mother. We will get you home."

"She's…in the crate," Ysmir observed, frowning.

Cicero smiled at her charmingly. His features were rather striking and aristocratic—he'd probably have been considered handsome if he weren't quite plainly a vassal of Sheogorath's. Idly, she wondered if the Daedra had put him here for her to find. "Well, yes. She's a corpse. Quite dead, for a long time now. Cicero could hardly put her behind the reins!"

"I'm sorry," she offered sincerely, wondering if that was what had driven him into the Shivering Isles, but he laughed gaily.

"Sorry! Sorry, she says! Well, no matter. Cicero was taking her to her new home, yes, her new crypt, when _wagon wheel!"_ All the mirth left his voice on the last few words, and he hopped up and down angrily as if stamping something into the dirt. _"Damnedest_ wagon wheel! It broke! Don't you see?" he gestured with both arms to the side of the cart away from the road, tapping his foot impatiently, and she winced. The wheel hadn't broken per se; it had come apart from the wagon. It was either staggering incompetence or someone hadn't wanted the jester to get very far.

"Well…" she glanced up the road. She really wasn't that far from Whiterun by horse, she could go back and fetch a wheelwright… "Is there some way I can help?"

Cicero's face went blank in astonishment for a moment before he squealed in glee, capering about, so light on his feet they made no noise against the cobbles…wait, was that a Muffle enchantment she saw glinting along the threads? She didn't have any more time to think on it as he grabbed her hands, spinning her around merrily. "Oh yes! The kindly stranger can certainly help!" He stopped, leaving her somewhat dizzy. "Go to the farm!" he said urgently. "The Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me!" He slumped a little as he added, "But he won't. He refuses." Straightening, he looked right at her, hope in his eyes and she felt her heart go out to him—not in the least because she had almost run him over. "Convince Loreius to fix my wheel. Do that, and Cicero shall reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!" he finished unnecessarily, but she smiled at his enthusiasm for money.

She glanced up the hill to the farm. "He refused to help you?" she queried, glancing back at him.

He nodded, hat flopping around but somehow staying on his head and was that another enchantment gleam? Shaking her head and deciding not to let it bother her, she marched up to where a man was hoeing a row of potato plants. Seeing her, he straightened warily, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Oh, for the love of Mara, what now?"

"The, um," how to describe Cicero? "The little man really needs your help. With his wagon?"

"That Cicero fella? Huh, tell me something I don't know," he replied scathingly. "Crazy fool has already asked me about five times. Seems he's not satisfied with my answer."

Putting a hand on her hip, she replied, "Well, neither am I. I'm sure he offered to pay you. What's your problem?"

"Pay me?" he repeated incredulously, "You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head. A jester? In Skyrim? Ain't been a merryman in these parts for a hundred years."

Ysmir rolled her eyes. "There weren't dragons for thousands of years. I should think a jester showing up far more likely."

Loreius flushed angrily. "And he's transporting some giant box. Says it's a coffin, and he's going to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there. War contraband, weapons, skooma. Ain't no way I'm getting involved in that."

Heaving a heavy sigh and giving Loreius a look that said he was being monumentally stupid, she stated, "Any idiot moving that kind of cargo does not travel by roads, and if they do they usually dress in something that won't draw attention. And they usually keep their crates of cargo small; easily hidden, easily moved, and easily portioned off. They don't put it all in one massive crate that will take a minimum of four men to move and risk having to leave the entire shipment behind if they're caught. It's just bad business practice."

"Er…" Loreius glanced her up and down, obviously wondering how she knew so much about it. She wasn't quite sure whether to find it irritating or refreshing that he didn't seem to know who she was.

Gracing him with the look she normally reserved for when one of her children had truly disappointed her, she added "He's a stranger who needs assistance. Please, do the right thing."

"What?" he asked, obviously taken aback. "And just who in Mara's name are you, anyway? Come here, telling me my business, and for what? To help a…a…a fool!"

Finding herself gritting her teeth, Ysmir put both hands on her hips. "The sooner you help him, the sooner he leaves."

Loreius paused, mouth open to frame his next argument, looking thoughtful. "I'll get my tools," he said, heading inside.

Not quite satisfied, Ysmir waited to walk down with him, making sure he kept his word. He was a silent, scornful presence while Cicero greeted Ysmir and him happily, but he did frown at the wheel, apparently realizing the same thing she had. He seemed a bit more sympathetic after that.

After doing a few cartwheels and squeezing her breathless, the jester hopped back, shaking her hand vigorously. "Oh, stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more, even more, my mother thanks you!"

"Er…" she glanced at the crate then smiled weakly. "You're both welcome."

"Here, here! For your troubles! Shiny, clinky gold! A few coins for your kind deed. And thank you, thank you again!" he replied, momentarily reminding her (weirdly enough) of Aventus, who'd said the exact same words after she had returned to tell him Grelod was dead.

Smiling gently, she closed his hand around the coin purse. "No need, Cicero. I nearly ran you over, after all! I was so busy worrying I didn't even see you in the road. Consider this my apology, and I hope you don't have any more troubles on the way to lay your mother to rest."

The merryman wiped a tear from his eye, "Oh, pretty stranger is too kind! Cicero will remember this, yes he will."

"Have a good trip, Cicero," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "You and your mother. Thank you, Loreius," she added to the surprised farmer, smiling winsomely, "for coming down." He blushed and muttered something intelligible, busy setting the wheel back onto the cart. Cicero snickered, then insisted on helping her onto Jughead's back like a lady, cupping his hands to give her a leg up.

With a final laughing farewell she headed off, nodding to a guard as she passed who saluted her with a nod and a curt, "Dragonborn."

"Dragonborn?" Cicero echoed, frowning. Wasn't there a contract on the Dragonborn? He'd heard there had been attempts on her life by his fellow Children of Sithis. He giggled, "Oops. I hope not. Cicero is glad he will not be carrying out that contract, no. Not after she helped Mother." He turned to see Loreius staring at him as if he were crazy and smiled. For some odd reason, the farmer seemed terrified. "Kind Loreius is so nice to help Cicero and his poor dead mother," he declared, batting his eyelashes.

"Stranger in need, and all that," Loreius replied nervously, standing. "Wheel's back on. I'd stop over in Whiterun and have them go over it, though. Only so much I can do, after all. Wouldn't want you to have any more problems."

Cicero narrowed his eyes before bursting into laughter. "Of course! Of course! It will be another delay, though. Cicero is getting…tired of those. It's almost as if someone doesn't _want_ Cicero to bring poor Mother home."

Loreius was very helpful after that point, even hitching up the horse for Cicero so that he could be on his way. Cicero decided that once he got Mother settled in, he would see about this contract on the Dragonborn. With any luck, there hadn't been a proper Sacrament, only whatever sacrilegious method Astrid had been using to find clients. It would be a shame if she had to die, after all. Mother liked her.

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**Hello everybody! I hope you've been having a good week! I had to travel out of state for work again and caught something while I was at it, so I've been nauseous and achy, and somewhat more spacey than usual (Spaaaaacccceee!), but otherwise okay. Currently, I am making lasagna with my boyfriend (well, it's in the oven, so I'm doing this, but up until that we made it together), and I am very hungry and hope it gets out soon. I lost a pound this week, but I'll probably gain it right back tonight. :P**

**Welcome, new favorites and followers! And thank you everyone who read this far, and especially those of you who reviewed!**

**Sevvyn: Thanks! It's lovely to hear my story has some original ideas-sometimes it seems even if you've never heard of something, someone else has already thought of it! I'd love to say not to worry about Darva...but...eh, anyway it's so nice to be appreciated! (This site needs emotes, I swear.)**

**Vergil1989: Oooh! No one has ever called me an evil minx before! :D Sort of, indeed. Well, at least I made a concentrated effort not to leave you guys on a cliffhanger this time. That said, you are going to hate me later.**

**Wynni: Yup, Frothar is deep in first crush with our lovely Runa-who really would be completely oblivious if Aventus hadn't said anything. Wow, that's...violent. Viking Wynni, out to bloody eagle the Grand Mistress of the Blades! XD Darva already knows in theory that there are bad dragons, she just hasn't met them yet. **

**Nax: I'm right with you in the Miraak fanboat. Aaaall aboard! Delphine really doesn't intend her harm...she needs a Dragonborn, after all. Darva just needs some...reeducation, as far as Delphine's concerned. And she's more than willing to give it to her.**

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**Next Week: Sofie reaches Eldergleam Sanctuary.**


	52. Chapter 52: Touched by Kyne

"Well, little friend, this is where M'aiq leaves you," the Khajiit declared, halting at the entrance to a cave. He paused, examining it. "Er…you are sure this is where you want to be?"

"It's the Sanctuary?" she asked, glancing away from the dark entrance that could be hiding spiders or…or something.

"It is a big cave with a big tree inside," he confirmed with a shrug.

Sofie nodded happily. "Then I'm sure," she assured him, fingertips brushing lightly over the petals of an enormous Dragon Tongue flower that bloomed just outside the entrance. Ysmir had several in the garden, but they never got this big.

"All right," he said doubtfully, and she giggled.

"Thank you, M'aiq," Sofie said, smiling hugely at him. "I don't think I would have had the courage to walk all the way here on my own."

The Khajiit smiled, scratching one cheek bashfully. "Sofie is a brave child. M'aiq is sure she would have gotten here somehow."

The girl blushed, not used to thinking of herself as "brave" at all. "Thanks," she replied, turning to go inside. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust, she felt her way slowly down the stone tunnel, going quite a ways before she began to doubt again, wondering if M'aiq had gotten the wrong cave. He has seemed sure, though, so she resolutely made her way forward, down further underground and into the darkness until, quite suddenly, she turned a corner and the rocks were lit with faint sunlight. A few more steps brought her to the beginnings of a wooden path, recessed between two ledges of rock and dirt with pines growing from them, and the tallest waterfall she'd ever seen falling from a hole in a cave roof taller than the Palace of Kings.

Enchanted, she moved along the path, coming to a bridge over a lively stream that seemed to burble and giggle pleasantly at her.

"Hello there, little friend!"

Sofie nearly jumped out of her skin as she suddenly realized a man sat next to the stream. He laughed and looked a bit apologetic. "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. Come to enjoy the sights and sounds of the Sanctuary, as I have?" He looked past her, probably waiting for her parents to come around the bend, then looked a bit puzzled when none materialized.

"Um, yes," she said, picking her way over to him. "Kind of. Is there someone in charge here?"

He watched her thoughtfully, rising to give her a hand over some rocks. "Well, I don't know about being in charge, but if you have questions you should talk to Asta. She's been here a lot longer than I have."

"Thank you," Sofie said politely, fighting her shyness. Still, she ducked her face behind her hair as she followed the man through the beautiful cave to where a woman sat, apparently basking in a shaft of sunlight.

"Asta, this little one has some questions," he said genially, leaving them to it with a wave. Sofie smiled bashfully back, then bobbed a curtsy to the woman, who chuckled.

"No need to be so formal, little one," she greeted her. "I'm Asta."

"Sofie," she supplied. "I…I was wondering…is there a way to get sap from the Eldergleam? I mean, is it tapped like a maple tree?"

The woman looked offended, and Sofie shrank back. "Why would anyone want to do such a thing? The Eldergleam is sacred to Kynareth, and hurting it in any way is despicable!" she caught sight of the wide-eyed expression on the child's face and sighed. "No. No, it's not tapped. Not that I know of, but no one has gotten close to the tree in years. The roots block the path," she waved toward the tree, and Sofie finally looked up.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The tree was massive, with roots stretching from the rise it grew on all the way to the bottom of the cavern. Its branches were covered with lovely blossoms—or leaves the color of blossoms, it was hard to tell from there. It grew under another opening to the sky, making it perfectly illuminated. Sofie wondered if one day it would grow right up out of the hole and pierce the sky, stretching its limbs in the wind.

Asta smiled at the expression on the girl's face. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Sofie nodded, unable to talk for a moment. Sitting, she watched the tree for a long while, until the light began to fade and she remembered her mission, a flash of the sad, empty branches of the Gildergreen in her mind's eye. "A priestess of Kynareth told me that the sap returns life to barren fields. If there're stories, then someone must have collected some sometime, and not hurt the tree. Maybe it oozes out, like some pine trees do."

"I've heard the tales," Asta admitted, turning to look at her curiously. "Why do you want the sap? Need to save your parent's farm?"

Sofie shook her head. "The Gildergreen in Whiterun. It's this tree's baby, but it got struck by lightning. The sap is the only thing that can make it better."

Asta shrugged. "You're welcome to go look for sap at the roots, but you won't get too far. I doubt a sweet little girl like you would want to hurt her, but be careful you don't fall and hurt yourself."

"I promise," Sofie replied with a smile, heading up the path.

The roots barred her way pretty quickly, but as she looked through them (there was no sap on them, unfortunately) she realized that while they might prevent an adult from getting further on, they would do no such thing for a girl as slight as she was. Kilting her skirts up she scrambled over the first one, then painstakingly made her way up, dodging and climbing roots. She had the oddest feeling that the tree was amused by her antics, but she told herself that it was all in her head.

Finally, she was at the base. Considering how overgrown the rock was below her, the space around the trunk was strangely clear. The tree was even more gorgeous up close, and the ground was littered with blossoms and leaves so thickly her feet made no sound as she approached the trunk, placing a shaking hand against the smooth bark and closing her eyes. The same rushing feeling she had gotten from the Gildergreen pulsed under her hand, only more so, feeling as if it traveled through her palm right up into her head and down through her toes into the earth again.

A sound much like bees in a hive made her turn. Sofie gasped, pressing her back flat against the tree as a woman made of wood gazed down at her, purple light filtering through the cracks in the gnarled wood that made her body. Her eyes regarded the girl steadily as she tilted her antlered head to the side. A second stood behind her, glowing from within with golden light, like that from a healing spell. Beyond them stood several more, all radiating the glow of sunlight through new spring leaves.

Spriggans.

Sofie gulped. "H-hello," she greeted them nervously. The ones in the back shied back like startled deer, but the front two continued to stare. "I…I'm Sofie. Please don't kill me. I don't want to hurt anything…" When nothing happened, she swallowed and continued, "I was hoping to find some sap from the Eldergleam to revive the Gildergreen. I don't know how to get it, though."

Still nothing, just the Spriggans turning slightly towards one another and a series of strange sounds mustering forth. Finally, the back Spriggans all faded back into the greenery, and the tall purple one came towards her. Sofie stiffened, unable to take her eyes off the creature as it reached forward, long fingers ending in splinter-sharp claws lightly brushing against her cheek, as if the Spriggan were examining her. This was altogether outside anything the poor girl had heard about. Ysmir had returned home time and again to complain about being attacked by a Spriggan for no other reason than walking too near its home. They were hostile, dangerous beings, and yet…

The Spriggan with purple light looked to the side. The other one had returned, hands cupped. Sofie stared at the pale, viscous sap in astonishment, then slowly reached into her basket and pulled out a jar, the kind normally reserved for when Uncle Inigo found a new insect pet, pulled the lid off and held it out to the Spriggan with trembling hands.

The sap flowed into the jar so perfectly that the Spriggan must have been able to manipulate its motion. Sofie sealed the jar securely with beeswax and the warmth from her hands, since she didn't think the Spriggans would like flame too much. "Thank you," she told them, smiling warmly. They regarded her the same way they had, and she wondered if they had facial expressions at all. Bobbing a curtsy, she put the jar in her basket and prepared to climb down.

The trip down was a lot worse than the trip up. For one thing, it was nearly dark, and for another, she was having a hard time not looking back up at the curious beings gazing down at her as she might at the antics of a particularly funny chipmunk. She'd wave once in a while, and once one of the green ones even waved back. Sofie giggled and decided that people were wrong about Spriggans being mean. Or perhaps the ones here were just particularly nice.

Asta greeted her at the base of the tree, looking as if she didn't fully approve climbing it. "Find what you needed?" she asked the girl.

Sofie beamed at her, taking her completely by surprise. "I met some Spriggans!" she announced. "Oh, they were nice," she added when she saw the alarm on the woman's face. Unslinging the basket from her back, she added, "They gave me some sap, and one waved to me!"

Mouth working silently, Asta stared at the little girl. "Where did you say you came from again?" she finally asked. "You mentioned the Gildergreen in Whiterun…are you an acolyte at the Temple there?"

Pursing her lips in puzzlement at the question, the little girl replied simply "No. I was staying at Jorrvaskr."

"So the priesthood didn't send you? This isn't a pilgrimage?" Asta persisted, trying desperately to make sense of all this. Of course, it was quite possible the child was lying, but somehow she didn't think so.

Sofie blinked. "What's a pilgrimage?" she asked curiously.

Rueful, disbelieving laughter was all the response the woman could manage for a few moments. "Here," she said, pulling something from her pocket. "Another pilgrim dropped this once. I think you should have it. Wear it always, and Kynareth will protect you. I'll get Sond to escort you back to the Temple, and I want you to go right up to the head priestess and tell her exactly what happened here." Dropping the Amulet of Kynareth around the girl's neck, she smiled at the child's slightly troubled expression.

Sofie fingered the Amulet doubtfully, looking back up at Asta. "I'm going to be in a lot of trouble when I get back," she admitted.

"Perhaps not as much as you think," the woman replied, when a commotion by the entrance caught their attention.

"This is a sacred place!" the man from earlier was yelling. "You cannot just come in here—no, stop! I won't let you!" A pained cry followed.

"Sond!" Asta cried, running.

Sofie watched in bewilderment as a troop of heavily armored individuals poured into the Sanctuary, spreading out like it was a military maneuver. The apparent leader was a large man who held up a parchment like a map, turning to get his bearings. As she watched, he pointed, "There."

To her horror, one of the others immediately moved forward with a shovel.

"Stop! What do you think you're doing?" Asta cried, grabbing the man's arm.

"We have business here, woman," the man said impatiently, shoving her away. "Let us get on with our jobs."

"What business could require desecrating this sacred space?" she persisted, darting in and ripping the parchment from his grasp. Turning, she grabbed a torch, holding it under the parchment. "Now leave, or your business will be—"

Sofie's hands came up to cover her mouth as the man coldly ran her through with a sword, kicking her off with a callousness that spoke of doing this several times before. She stood frozen as the man with the shovel stared at him in surprise. "Was that really necessary, Garrot?" he asked in disapproval. "They were just pilgrims."

"No one can know what we're doing here," he replied, unaffected. Stooping, he pulled the map from Asta's hand, frowning at the rip in it and wiping the blade clean on the dead woman's skirts.

"Are you going to kill their brat too?" a woman asked, voice dripping with dislike for the man as she pointed to Sofie. The men looked in surprise, having not noticed her at all. "Because if you even _think _that we'll let you get away with that, you'll be in for a real surprise, Garrot. We're here to protect people, not kill those who get in our way." She softened slightly, "I know you've been through a lot lately, but you can't forget our purpose, Garrot."

There was a long pause as the others watched this. Finally, Garrot turned away. "Bah," was all he said, though.

The woman came over and put a hand on Sofie's shoulder, bending to meet her eye-to-eye. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she said, real sympathy in her voice. "It should never have happened."

Sofie looked from the bodies to the man with the shovel. "Get out," she breathed, then yelled, "Get out!" as the man shoved the iron blade into the ground.

The effect was immediate. The cavern filled with the swarming of bees as Spriggans emerged from the trees and flora. The woman drew her sword and shoved Sofie behind her, where the girl fell over one of the lesser roots, wrapping her arms around the jar to protect it. The Spriggans ignored them, though, going after first the man with the shovel, then the rest of them.

"No!" Sofie cried, struggling to her feet. The woman gave her a startled glance and threw her arms around her, holding her back as she lunged for the scene, not entirely certain what she was trying to do other than stop the carnage.

A Breton pulled out a staff and started lobbing fireballs at the Spriggans, who screamed in their peculiar voices and fell back, healing themselves. Another man pulled a red-tinged greatsword from his back that left fire behind whenever it hit a nature spirit.

"No no no no no," Sofie sobbed, nearly chanted as she could do nothing but watch. Four of the six Spriggans lay dead in minutes, and all she could do was moan.

"It's a Matron!" another woman yelled, an Orc by her voice.

The golden Spriggan joined her sisters—or perhaps her daughters—enveloping the defilers in a green cloud of angry, poisoned wasps until she went up in a wall of flame, her anguished cries grating on human and mer ears alike.

A scuff from behind them made the woman holding her turn, lifting her off the ground as she swung around and gasped. "An Earth Mother," the woman breathed, sounding terrified as the purple Spriggan stepped menacingly away from the roots of the Eldergleam.

"Stop!" Sofie yelled at her. "You have to protect the tree!"

The woman looked down at her as if she was mad but the Earth Mother paused, her eyes locking on Sofie's.

_Please,_ she thought at the Spriggan, _Please don't fight. The Sanctuary is lost for now, just protect the tree. Don't die. I don't want to watch you die, too._

As the other warriors came running the Earth Mother examined them, then turned her gaze back to Sofie. Then she took a single step backwards and vanished back into the Eldergleam.

The woman dropped Sofie as if burned. "What did you do?" she asked, sounding as horrified as Sofie was.

"I told her to protect the tree," Sofie said softly, incredulously. "And she listened to me."

"Yeah, right," the leader scoffed, having arrived just in time to hear this last part. "What are you supposed to be, a priestess of Kynareth?"

"It really did listen to her, Garrot," the woman said, sounding frightened.

"Some reports say that Spriggans speak their own language," the Breton said, leaning on his fire staff. "Some of the scholars in High Rock spent years trying to learn it. Maybe those worshipers were among those that knew how to speak it, and taught her."

Garrot rolled his eyes. "Frankly, I don't care as long as no more Spriggans come out of the woodwork. Now Fjotli, take that brat back to camp. Someone can drop her ass at the Orphanage when we're done here. For now, we have some dragon bones to unearth!"

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**I hope everyone has been having a good week. Well, I meant to post this much earlier, but I got an urgent call from work while at the grocery store asking me to come in IMMEDIATELY, so that's where I've been. In other news, my chins are nuts as ever. One of them is now addicted to green apples, and will follow me like a duckling if I'm eating one, and the other keeps getting out. I just watched her jump over the barrier to the wash room for the second time tonight, and they have't even been out twenty minutes yet. Yesterday I looked up to see her gingerly making her way over the pile of soaking pots in the sink (and I still don't know how she got up on the counter) and had to catch her and rub her down. She is strenuously avoiding me now. I've decided to name them Stardust (Dust) and Troublemaker (Trouble), because that's how their personalities are steering me.**

**I have a serious question to pose to you all, and if you could answer me in reviews or by PM, that'd be great...If I self-published one of my original works, would you guys at least check it out?**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!**

**LightningMoziak: Not getting enough Miraak/LDB stories is what actually got me thinking of writing a fanfic. Actually, that's what got me writing in general-there weren't enough of the kinds of stories I wanted to read, so I started writing them. Thanks for the support!**

**Wynni: Remind me to never get on your bad side...er...unless I did with this chapter where Sofie had a hard time. 0_o ... Oooh, I have Irish in me too...maybe I have some Viking? :D Unfortunately, Cicero was more of a cameo, like Talsgar or Erik were. If I continue the series past the end, he'll appear more, but most likely we won't see him again in this tale.**

**Vergil1989: Speaking of finding her children alive and well... Lol. I like Cicero too, and I'm glad I had a chance to have him say hello, even if he didn't get to kill anyone.**

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**Next chapter: Miraak learns some distressing news...**


	53. Chapter 53: Turinmar

It was cold. He was fairly certain he had never been so cold in his life, from the air in his lungs to the burning icy ache in his toes. Someone was trying to warm him up—at least, he was covered with furs and there was a fire nearby—but nothing was quite making sense…

Turinmar felt someone lift him up slightly, pouring warm mead down his throat. That was nice. The liquid was warm on its own, but the alcohol left a fire in his belly that did much more to warm him than anything else so far. He mumbled something, and the person giving him mead gently set him down and left, much to his displeasure.

He opened his eyes trying to find them, but all he saw was dark stone walls coated in frost. Where was he? The Dark Elf shifted, trying to move closer to the fire, and pain radiated from two spots on his back. Memory followed the twin lances of pain like a tide rushing in.

The little girl—she was Miraak's—and she'd been taken.

Panic warmed him faster than anything, and when the pair of Nord men walked into the room the Dunmer was doing his best to disentangle himself from the blankets, but was having quite a bit of trouble even moving himself. Everything seemed to take a lot more effort than it should, and he couldn't seem to stop shaking. Everything hurt—except the parts that he couldn't feel at all, just a strange sense of pressure assuring him that they were still connected.

"Peace, elf," one of the men cautioned, holding up a hand. "You were brought to us half frozen yesterday morning. You have not yet had time to recover."

"I've got to go," Turinmar stated, collapsing back onto the pallet as his stamina leeched away. "They dragged them off. I've got to tell…" His previous thoughts came back in a rush, and he looked up at the man who must surely be a Greybeard with wide red eyes. "The little girl and boy were taken. There was a group of mercenaries that just grabbed them."

The Nord's face was grave. "So you did see what happened. I'd hoped you might. Klimmek said he saw signs of fighting on the way up, and then found you half dead at the bottom of our steps. You are lucky Argis the Housecarl requested he bring healing potions to us. Had he not, you would be dead. As it is, you will be many weeks in recovering without a healer." Turinmar digested this as the Nord settled on the floor near him in what looked like a meditative posture. "Now, tell me all you remember about these mercenaries."

Turinmar did, knowing it would get back to the Dragonborn, one way or another. When he described the swords the man's face tensed. When he mentioned the woman, the Nord's expression took on such a sour note the Dunmer was momentarily reminded of Dorte. "Blades," he said wearily, almost as if he wished to curse the word. "So they came for Darva. We must tell the Dragonborn," he added, rising. "You would do best to rest, regain your strength. Our leader returns to us tomorrow, and he will send word to Ysmir. She will wish to speak with you."

He just bet she would. He had already told the old man everything he knew, though, and Turinmar had another Dragonborn to answer to. He drank his hot broth and warm mead and slept until the monastery grew dark, then drank the sole magicka potion he had left and set about healing himself as best he could. Feeling not quiet better but able to move, he finished what was left of the soup and mead before he made his ponderous way out of the monastery.

It was snowing out. Of course it was. The Steward more fell down the steps than walked down them, ending up gasping in a snowdrift and wondering if he should just go back inside. But no; Miraak needed to know. He needed to hear this. Healing himself again, Turinmar pushed himself up—ruefully wondering if that Nordic stubbornness at the expense of sense had rubbed off on him—and continued on, doing his best to ignore the growing pain in every extremity he had. When he was finally past the statue of Tiber Septim he fell to his knees, pulled out a small box with ink and ancient parchment, cut his hand and let it bleed until said parchment was soaked, then lit it afire and whispered Miraak's name.

A portal opened almost immediately, and his lord stepped out into the blizzard as if into a sunny day. "Turinmar?" he asked, displeasure and surprise in his tone, "what are you doing up here?"

The Dunmer almost smiled, but he had bad news to impart. "Dar-d-d-d," shit, his teeth were chattering too much. He tried to summon a flame spell, but his magicka was still returning from his earlier healing; he'd barely been able to set the parchment alight. He could almost sense Miraak's puzzled irritation.

Abruptly, the Daedra turned toward the storm. _"Lok Vah Koor!"_ he Shouted, dispelling the clouds immediately above and leaving them in a little pocket of calm before striding to the Steward. "What happened, Turinmar?" he asked, kneeling down next to him when the Dunmer was unable to rise. "Why are you at High Hrothgar?"

He really didn't want to tell him. He shouldn't have come, he knew that now. Miraak probably would kill him for being so curious. It didn't matter so much, he supposed, he'd long ago given his life to the man anyway, so he looked up into that cold mask and rasped past his chattering teeth, "Your d-d-daughter...they t-took her."

That finally out, he fell face-first into the snow as his world went black.

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Dorte pursed her lips as she looked around Turinmar's office. She sincerely hoped his niece was as good at organization as the man claimed, because she couldn't find a thing. Of course, it would help if the blasted man didn't insist on keeping records dating almost back to the Oblivion Crisis. What use was a receipt for one hundred potatoes dated when her grandfather had been a child? On the one hand, she would have loved to have everything running so smoothly and efficiently that the Dunmer was rendered speechless. On the other hand, she'd had no idea how much work he did. The building was going fine—she knew how to run that like a well-oiled Dwemer spider—but she'd not known that the Steward personally took care of making sure there were enough materials for bedding and clothes, food and magical apparatus. She wasn't even sure what most of the things the mages were asking for _were,_ let alone how to get them. What on earth were Wisp Wrappings, for instance? And what did they need a Giant's toe for? And who was this Sam character that kept requesting Hagraven feathers and asking why they didn't have an inn yet?

She sighed, going to the back of the room and opening the door there. It was perhaps a bit odd to venture into Turinmar's bedroom, but he had stacks of records in here, as well, and she hadn't finished skimming through them. Briefly, she wondered if this sudden trip to Skyrim had anything to do with her demanding so much of him. Granted, she'd had no idea that he wasn't one to delegate _anything,_ but…

There was someone in the room already. Grinding to a halt, she could only stare as a large Nord man with blond hair and eerily familiar robes finished covering up a half-dead Dark Elf. She gasped as she recognized the Steward, hand flying to cover her mouth, and the man turned towards her, glaring at her. She rocked back, leaning against the doorframe as her knees shook.

Half his face was covered in the same scales as the beast that destroyed her sister's home. She'd know those scales anywhere. The handsome face they merged with was made alien by them, twisted by unnatural magic that went against everything she had ever learned, but she found she couldn't look away no matter how it twisted her stomach. His forbidding expression was made all the worse by his pitch-black eyes, narrowed in anger and something she couldn't place.

"Close the door, woman," he finally ground out, and she jumped at the familiar tone even as the room shook slightly.

"Miraak?" she asked incredulously, then found herself stumbling forward as the door closed anyway. He glared at her before turning back to Turinmar, gold light arching around them both as he raised his hands over the Steward, palms down.

"There are potions around here somewhere," he told her, voice still tightly controlled and underlaced with fury. She rushed to find them, starting at the Alchemy table she had once teased the steward that he was going to poison himself at.

"What happened to him?" she couldn't help but ask, yanking the top off a barrel and peering inside, then staring in appalled silence when there actually was a Giant's toe in there. Quickly, she slammed the lid back on and went to the next one.

"Frostbite," Miraak replied curtly, "as well as two arrow wounds, internal bleeding, and laying on his injuries for at least a day. If he has any potions for resisting cold, those would be nearly as helpful as healing potions."

Dorte halted, staring. "But you're a mage—Daedra," she corrected herself. "Surely you can heal him?"

"I don't have power over time," he ground out. "Some things can only be healed before they progress too far. Frostbite is one of them. He'll be lucky if I can get his hands working again."

"Found them!" she cried jubilantly, pulling a large pinkish-red bottle from a chest and reading the label. "It says 'ultimate.'"

"Bring it here," he commanded, hands still glowing gold.

The woman didn't bother to ask before she lifted the Dunmer up, tilting his head back as she pulled the cork out with her teeth. "Turinmar," she said gently, bouncing him a bit as she would a small child. "Wake up. I need you to drink something."

The Dark Elf's eyes slitted open, rolling a bit as he looked around. "Oh, good," he said, eyes falling on the potion. "I'm not dead."

"Not yet, you great idiot," Miraak told him wearily. "But you have a lot of explaining to do."

Turinmar actually smiled. "You could have told me," he told the Daedra lightly.

Dorte sniffed, then her eyebrows shot up. "Turinmar, have you been drinking?"

"Mead. Warm," he replied.

She cursed. "It makes you _feel_ warm," she agreed, "but it's a lie. People have frozen to death because alcohol fooled their bodies into thinking they were warmer than they really were. Idiot!"

"Potion, Dorte," Miraak reminded her harshly, gazing at them both with narrowed eyes.

Turinmar sighed as she lifted the potion bottle to his lips, and Miraak's eyebrows shot up incredulously, but he didn't say anything. Some of the ashy-grey pallor fled from the elf's ears and cheeks, and his hands returned to their normal, healthy grey. The tips of his ears were still black, though, and he would probably lose at least one of his toes, if not an entire foot.

"Dorte," Miraak said tightly, and the woman risked a glance at him, completely unsure of this half-dragon man with black eyes. The cool indifference of the mask she could deal with—she wasn't entirely certain she could handle Miraak as a person, especially when he looked about to commit murder. The fact that she was still holding Turinmar was probably the only reason she was still breathing.

"No, milor'" Turinmar mumbled, reaching up listlessly from where he lay. "I told her…my fault. Got…curious, you know."

For a moment Miraak just stared at him, face expressionless, then sighed. "I gave you an assistant to help your health, not so you could leave her in charge as you put yourself in danger."

"Couldn't help myself," Turinmar muttered. "Potion nice. Just going to…potion nice," he added, eyes finally shutting. Blisters started forming on his cheeks and chin, the skin around them a mottled purple-blue as ice crystals inside his body unfroze. Laying him down with the blanket tucked carefully around his shoulders, Dorte poured health potion on a spare sash to make an impromptu poultice, swathing his face lightly. Other than that and ensuring the room stayed warm, there really wasn't much more she could do.

Nervously, Dorte turned to look at Miraak, whose gaze was once again on her face. What she saw there did not bode well for her. "Dorte, there are currently three people in existence who I truly give a damn about. That stupid, nosey Dunmer is one of them. If he dies before I get back you will never make it to Sovngarde. You will spend the rest of eternity floating in a black sea, drowning and unable to die. Do you understand me?"

She nodded numbly, licking her lips, not even bothering to protest that she didn't want anything to happen to the Steward either. He could see that right from her mind. "What are you going to do?" she asked, heart hammering so loudly she was certain it was going to burst out of her chest.

"Get Iriel," he replied, turning and opening a portal, "and drag her back here to heal her uncle. Then I need to go find the last two people I care about." He paused, giving her a suspicious look. "Why are you smiling?"

Dorte shook her head. "I knew there was an ordinary man in there somewhere," she said, perhaps unwisely, but he would have read her mind anyway.

Miraak growled something suspiciously like "You're lucky I have need of you at the moment," before vanishing into Oblivion.

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**Hi people. Been an eventful week for me. I quit my job, so now I have to find a new one. Don't know if said new one will give me much time for writing or not. I feel rather weird about it, because I wasn't ready to quit yet, but something happened that made me just throw the towel in, and while normally I'd be a lot more angsty about it (wondering if I did the right thing quitting, or quitting right then, lots of self-doubt, yadda yadda yadda), everyone keeps telling me they're glad I did, so I'm not as frantic about this as I could be. Mostly quiet panic staved off by cooking and cleaning and watching copious amounts of Bleach. At this point, I was only making enough to buy gas for where they were sending me every week anyway. No point working to work-I have bills to pay. **

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed. Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Wicked Lullaby: Glad you approve. :) Sofie is one of my favorites as well. If for some reason she wasn't one of the two I adopted (before I got the multiple adoptions mod, anyway) I had to avoid Windhelm altogether, because I felt horribly guilty I wasn't going to rescue her from her horrible life. If you're feeling on a Cicero kick, have you checked out the story "With a Dragonborn Like This?" It's one of my favorites, even if some parts of it did horrify me first reading.**

**Nax: I hope hearing about Miraak was all you could wish. As for Cicero, there is no reason to kill him for his clothing. There is a spare set of the Jester Outfit that he wears right in the Dawnstar Sanctuary during the quest Cure for Madness, so you can spare him now, if that's what you want. :)**

**Roger509: Thanks! Glad to hear somebody would! I'll post it up when it comes out, though it might not be until after this story is finished. As for the login feature, I believe it logs you out every few days for security purposes. There is a bit of a reunion, yes, but it is technically off-screen.**

**Wynni: Ditto with the transfusion thing, but perhaps plants don't have as much maternal instinct. Personally, I don't see why the tree needed to be hurt to get the sap-there are plenty of ways to get sap from a tree without stabbing it and incurring the wrath of several Spriggans. The "ink treatment?" XD You'll be happy to know that Ulfric is alive and well in this fic, even if Ysmir doesn't side with him in the war, being firmly in the "Fuck Your Faction" faction.**

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**I haven't decided what's going to happen next week yet, sorry, but it'll either be a little side-quest with the Dawnguard group or back with Ysmir going to see Augie. Probably. **


	54. Chapter 54: Bitter Mercy

There was something going on at the entrance. Lydia looked up from her rather animated conversation with Ingjard about the virtues of heavy armor versus light as Agmaer rounded the corner to the dining area, sweeping sweat-soaked hair out of his face. She'd been surprised to see him still at Fort Dawnguard, honestly, certain he would run home to find a nice girl to marry since the moment she'd met him. Of course, she'd thought the same thing about Erik, and he was still at the mercenary business. "What's all the commotion?" she asked curiously.

The Nord shrugged. "Someone at the door. Says he wants to kill vampires, but Florentius keeps warning Isran off him, insisting he leave."

The women exchanged looks, "Why?" Ingjard finally asked.

"Don't know. Guy appears to be a mage of some kind, though. Been awhile since we had a good mage apply," with that, he headed off.

Lydia gazed at the doorway, considering her options as the yelling of the priest of Arkay grew more insistent. Could this mage be an agent of Siddgeir's, looking for her Thane? If so, it was best he not see her, but she certainly wanted to get a good look at him. Excusing herself, she climbed to the second floor to look down into the entry hall. Spotlit in the brilliant sunlight that cut through the gloom in shafts of dust-clouded gold, Florentius was earnestly waving his arms at an unimpressed Isran, who seemed quite irritated by the whole affair. The mage was leaning against a staff, expression conveying wounded feelings, but something about his eyes suggested that he found this—indeed, probably most things—amusing. Imperial, with middling brown hair and finely hewn features, a neat goatee encircling narrow lips that seemed to curve upward slightly even when he frowned, as he was now. His robes were eye-wateringly odd, the undertunic and trousers a deep red, not unlike her Thane's hair, while the actual robe itself was the same shade as a newly bloomed deathbell. His staff was unlike any she'd ever seen before, either, looking almost like a triton, with a single spear in the center and two flanking blades that looked like nothing so much as the wings of the Imperial Dragon, removed and inverted before being set into the shaft.

Lydia knew four things immediately, the first of which was that she had never seen him before. That second was that despite this, there was something familiar about his angular, Imperial features—the shape of his brow or perhaps the line of his slightly aquiline nose. The third was that he was trouble; he was taking far too much pleasure in Florentius's insistence that he not be allowed in the Dawnguard, while trying to look as if it bothered him greatly. The last was that it was doubtful he worked for Siddgeir. Somehow, she got the impression he wouldn't tolerate the kind of indolent disrespect the Falkreath Jarl doled out to everyone, even the Dragonborn.

"Look here, man," he interjected in the sophisticated clip common to inner Cyrodiil, "I don't know what I have done to offend you, but I promise I mean no disrespect to you or Arkay. I simply came to fight some vampires."

Florentius put his hands on his hips, usual friendly demeanor completely absent. "And why is that?" he asked before Isran could do more than open his mouth. Oh, that wasn't good. Few people besides Ysmir and Serana got away with stepping on Isran's toes, although lately Blaise was showing a talent for it, even if it did get him sent to muck out the troll pen again.

The mage looked surprised. "Why, to defend the innocent, of course," he said, not convincing in the least. "All the cute little children with their little chubby cheeks, and all the buxom ladies." He glanced up at Lydia as he said this, unerringly finding where she was observing from the shadows without apparently searching for her, giving her a quick wink. She tensed, eyes narrowing. Definitely trouble.

Isran muttered something that had Florentius gaping in disbelief and the mage smirking. "You can't be serious, Isran!" the priest protested.

"I saw this man take down three vampires himself with a single spell," Isran said firmly. "I invited him to come here myself. He stays, for now. Whatever issues you have with him, I suggest you two work it out. He at least seems more than willing." With that, the leader of the Dawnguard turned and stomped away, right passed Lucia, who watched him go in puzzlement, then brushed ineffectively at the mud prints he'd left with the broom she carried. Lydia turned and raced down the stairs, slowing at the end so the mage wouldn't know she was hurrying. She didn't want that man anywhere near her Thane's children.

Arriving just in time to see the newcomer shaking the little girl's hand politely, she groaned. No help for it, she supposed. If he was really going to be staying here, he would encounter the children sooner or later, especially since Isran had decided the best way to keep them out of trouble was to assign them most of the small tasks that had been put aside in favor of wiping out vampires. Not a man at all used to dealing with children, Isran had greeted their arrival with thinly disguised alarm that had quickly turned to exasperation and occasional bouts of panic when one of them did something unexpected. Under other circumstances, it would have been highly amusing, and frankly Lydia couldn't wait until this whole predicament was settled so she could share it with her Thane. Somehow, she thought Ysmir would find the surly Redguard spending an entire hour searching for Lucia's doll because he couldn't deal with her tears or panicking over Blaise's bloody nose just as hilarious as she did.

"Lucia," she said, making her blink as she seemed to stare into the stranger's face, transfixed. The girl jumped, looking as if she was trying to hide behind the broom. "What are you doing out here? I thought you had an archery lesson with Sorine."

Lucia sighed, "I…I made her confused again."

The housecarl frowned, nearly forgetting all about the strange mage for the moment. "Confused how?"

The young Imperial blushed slightly, looking sheepish. Honestly, Lydia had known that someone had been playing with Ysmir's Dwemer souvenirs, but she never would have guessed it was Lucia. She also never would have guessed the girl could dismantle and rebuild most of the automatons in less than an afternoon. By now, she was slightly afraid Sorine wouldn't give her back. "Well, she brought back a broken Spider Worker from the last ruin she went down and was trying to get it to work without attacking everything that came near it. So I had Blaise hit it with a shovel and did some fiddling with the receptacle for the soul gem and when I put it back together it started cleaning up the rubble near the wall. I told Sorine it just had to do with the calibrations input into the power console just inside the receptacle, but she had no idea what I was talking about. So now she's trying to get the Spider to stop working long enough for me to show her the access panel."

Lydia blinked, utterly confused. "You lost me at the part about a soul gem," she confessed.

The mage chuckled and she shot him a glance. The innocent look he gave her reminded her of nothing so much as Blaise at his worst. "And you are?" she finally asked, not bothering to hide her disapproval in the least. Lucia looked from her to the newcomer, surprised at the housecarl's animosity.

"Romulus Amulius, at your service," he announced, giving her a gallant bow that was completely ruined by the waggling of his eyebrows as he said the word "service."

Lydia just barely managed not to roll her eyes. This one was worse than Marcurio. "I'm sure," she replied. "Come on, Lucia, there are still things that need doing. At least one of them must be urgent." Shooing the girl out the door, she paused when the mage called out.

"My lady?" he beckoned, all Imperial politeness.

When she looked over her shoulder inquiringly, his eyes were smoldering in a way she wasn't sure she liked—especially since she didn't necessarily dislike it at all. Not the time or place, she reminded herself, promising to ask Ysmir for a holiday after all this was over with. It was pretty bad when her Thane's taste in men was apparently rubbing off: Lydia had never been the type to go for the dangerous kind. Or mages, for that matter. "What is it?"

"You never told me your name," he prompted, lips curving upwards.

"She's Lydia," Lucia piped up, peering around the housecarl.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lydia," he said, his voice caressing her name in a way she was completely unused to. "Absolutely…charmed." His eyes flickered down to the little girl, "Perhaps we can play tag later, Lucia," he said in a more normal tone. "Or have some tea and strawberry torte."

"Kay!" she replied cheerfully, taking Lydia's hand and practically skipping away.

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Runa had finally decided to attempt the impossible, at least as far as Frothar was concerned. Dagny's hands had healed enough to attempt some weapons work, and the older girl had put a practice dagger (really more of a padded stick) in one, a pot lid in the other, and started showing the Lady of Dragonsreach the basic stances. She'd quietly said that Ventis had been considering do so, which had both of them in tears for a bit (Frothar could understand Runa's grief but he really thought Dagny should be over it by now), and now they were standing in front of the pell, Runa cheering his sister on as she hit the thing in the same spots over and over. Frothar had watched for a while, then decided it was too weird and went to go through his own drills, trying to sort his thoughts.

It seemed like forever since they had been kidnapped. Why hadn't rescue come? Was it only that the Hagraven had left no trace? But Farengar must know some kin-finding spells, or something. The old tales told of such things, right? Only, perhaps Farengar didn't know them, and had needed to send to Winterhold, to see if any of the College mages were familiar with them, and that was what was taking so long. Ventis had once mentioned that they were in the Reach. The Reach was teaming with Foresworn. What if help had been sent, only to fall to the barbarians? It didn't really bear thinking about.

He was sick of being here. When he got home, he was never going to wantonly pick fights or insult people ever again. Not unless they deserved it, anyway. And he was going to be nicer to the servants. He'd had no idea how hard their jobs were until he was doing them himself! No wonder Fianna and Gerda were always sweeping the front of the Hall; no sooner had you gotten one section done than the other needed swept again, because everyone had trampled over it! Warily, he thought he might want to talk to his father about the woman locked in the basement, too. Maybe ask if she could be moved somewhere else. Nelkir would always be a snide little brat now, but there was no doubt in his brother's mind that she'd turned him into one.

Frothar had no idea how long they had been there—the days had started to blur together so that he'd lost track somewhere in the second week. Lars was somehow taller than Braith now, when they had been about the same height before, and his shirt was getting too tight across the chest and in the arms, same as Frothar's. Dagny's dress was a bit too short, as well. Of course, she'd been growing like a weed even before they'd gotten kidnapped. Melka had even named them all now, even if some of the names weren't all that creative. Runa of course was still "Runaway;" he was "Big Boy" while Nelkir was simply "Small Boy;" Lars was "Book Boy;" Dagny was "Sniffles;" and Braith was "Mouth."

"Why do 'b's look so much like 'd's?" Braith whined, glaring down at the letters scratched into the dirt in front of her and Lars. They were just under the stairs where there was the most light. One of the Hag's handmaids had also left a book of Candlelight around, and Lars had somehow managed to decipher the gibberish enough to make brief bursts of bright, hovering light. They only made everything look dingier, though, so after a while he had decided he'd rather stick with torches.

"That's like asking why Dagny's face looks so much like a skeever's behind," Nelkir put in from where he lay on the straw, hands behind his head. "One may resemble the other but you can still tell the difference—a lot more hot air comes from one than the other."

"Nelkir!" Dagny protested, near tears. Runa put an arm around her and glared at the youngest noble, lips tight with anger.

Frothar was done glaring. Putting down the wooden sword Braith had unearthed from a rotting crate, he strode over to his brother and lifted him off the straw by the front of his shirt. "Look at her!" he yelled, turning the boy to look at his weepy sister. "You think that's funny?"

"A little," Nelkir admitted, apparently unfazed, "but she's been crying so much lately it's kind of lost its novelty."

Dropping the younger boy in disgust, Frothar froze, his eyes riveted to the figure in the corner, calmly watching. They hadn't even heard her breathing. How much had she seen? "Big Boy," the Hag said, crooking her finger at him, "Pick up Small Boy. Follow, yes, follow me." When he didn't move, she shot a lightning bolt at his feet, making him jump back, eyes wide. "Follow!"

He glanced down at Nelkir, who was still sprawled on the ground, gazing at the Hag with horror. Frothar swallowed, "I'm not carting my brother up to your tower so you can eat him."

Melka stared at him a moment before bursting into a cackling laugh that reminded him of a raven's quark. "When I eat you, boy, you not see it coming. More fun that way. Wide eyes, pretty, yes. Shiny. Come."

Mustering all his strength, Frothar stepped between her and Nelkir, "No. Stay away from him."

The Hag's eyes narrowed, wisps of brightness starting to dance over her cracked knuckles, when the woman from the first night strode in, took one look at the scene and put her hands on her hips. "Well, what is going on here?"

The Hagraven actually pouted. "Big Boy does not trust me not to eat Small Boy."

Illia rolled her eyes, "I'm frankly shocked you haven't eaten him already," she declared, then shot a ball of green light at Frothar. He couldn't dodge, and crashed to the floor as his limbs stopped obeying his commands. Nelkir made a strangled little sound, crawling over to him and shaking him, unable to even move his shoulder. Faintly, he heard Dagny moan. The peculiar sound of the Hag's talons on stone filled the room as Melka strode forward, reached down, and pulled Nelkir up by the ear. He could barely see enough from his frozen position to watch Nelkir slap a hand over his ear to keep her from ripping it off, face contorted in pain. Without another word, Melka strode off, heedless of Nelkir stumbling along behind her.

The witch stood over him as the spell wore off, tapping her foot. "While your attempt to protect your kin is admirable, defying your mistress is just stupid," she told him tartly. "Now, follow me and no more misguided attempts at heroism, or you'll find yourself paralyzed again so fast your head would spin if it wasn't frozen in place."

Frothar just nodded, following her out of the room without looking at the rest of the children. He really didn't want to look at Runa. What she had made of his helplessness he didn't want to consider, especially after he'd promised to look after her. They climbed to the top of the tower, where he'd never been before, since anyone with any self-preservation avoided the dens of monsters. Nearly sagging in relief, he spotted Nelkir standing at a table halfway across the room.

"Well?" the Hag was prompting him. "Carve."

"I…" Nelkir looked down at the dead goat on the table and back up to the Hag. "I don't know how."

She sighed, sounding very put-upon. Glancing up, her already beady eyes narrowed further, like a crow the moment before it decides to peck. "Big Boy, know you how to skin goat?"

"Uh…" not technically, no.

Melka cast an annoyed glance upward, as if beseeching Aetherius for patience—which was rather odd, in Frothar's opinion, because he thought a Hag should maybe be looking the other way—and screeched, "Useless! Completely useless, these nibbles are. I should eat them. Good for nothing! Don't know food, don't know chores…how did morsels earn their keep?" she looked back down at them, as if actually expecting them to answer.

"We're…"Nelkir swallowed, "We're the sons of a jarl. We're born better. We'll rule when we get older, so we're entitled to—"

"Parasites!" she hissed, leaning across the table so that her face was inches from Nelkir's. "I've brought parasites into my nest. Feasting and fattening on the work of others, on blood and toil. Tics! Fleas! A louse apiece! Give nothing, take all!"

Nelkir staggered back, only to have the Hag reach out and grab his chin. "Some worth, at least," she rasped, "The pretty morsels are fat! Fat on the fruit of other's fields. Fat like cattle."

Beside him, Illia seemed to think that amusing. Chuckling as she leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms and looking perfectly relaxed, she added, "You know, some cattle aren't bred for milk or farm work. Many calves are just intended for veal."

There was a moment's pause before Melka chuckled as well, releasing Nelkir and pushing him away. "Little nibble," she told him, her flat, mud-colored eyes gazing into his, "you be worst child ever brought here. You be poisoned, you spread poison without thinking. A festering spider bite, you be. It turns my stomach, yes. Go downstairs, little Parasite. Go."

Nelkir stood there for a long moment, staring at the creature that once was a woman and shaking all over. It took her screeching at him, a wordless blast of annoyance and dislike, to get him moving, running right past his brother and down the stairs.

"You're letting him go?" Illia asked with deceptive lightness, even though the older boy was surprised to see tension in the line of her jaw, as if she thought she might need to fight the Hag over something. There was more going on there than he'd thought.

Melka tilted her head, regarding the woman from a jaundiced angle and a piercing expression. "It be a bitter mercy," she replied. "Parasites turn my stomach." Frothar felt his heart pounding in his ears as the Hag turned her attention to him. "Big Boy defied me," she said calmly. "Talked back to Melka." Shuffling up to him, she lightly scratched her talons down his cheek, resting the sharp tips right next to his eye. "Never do again." Turning from him abruptly, she looked at Illia. "Please to fetch Runaway. Bring two buckets water. Altar need scrub."

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**Hi, guys. So I've reached the point where I will be writing a chapter a week or not posting for most weeks. I tried to keep ahead, but life happened. I hope to keep the same level of quality and foreshadowing for you, but I am trying to get another job, and how much I write depends a lot on whether I get full or part time. I've also decided to put back some of the stuff I had taken out for length reasons. I've given up trying to keep this under a hundred chapters. Whatever it ends up being is what it will be, and I'll just have to get the story out the way it is supposed to be written, rather than trying to constrain it. That said, this month it has officially been a year since I posted the first chapter, which is especially nice considering I just posted the prequel here as well. Please check it out and let me know what you think of it! I live for reviews! And cuddles. And sweets. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Thank you. ^_^**

**Roger509: That was one of the parts I had decided to take out to keep the chapter count down, but you're right; it is odd, so I am putting it back in. Congratulations, you just added at least five chapters and part of the epilogue to this story. :P**

**afeleon276: Hearthfire Multiple Adoptions by TMPhoenix. You can find it on Nexus or Steam. :D Overlooking the whole "plans to take over the world" thing is a big hurdle in their relationship. XD**

**Wynni: I try to keep my chapters a minimum of 2,000 words. I agree about the tree. I thought that was cold. :( I'm glad you're liking Miraak. I worry sometimes that I'm not showing enough of his aggressive side, but honestly he mostly interacts with characters that bring out the good in him!**

**Nax: "And if I spy a singing bird I'll-urk!" "Quiet! I know it's been forever since you were out on a job but...ah, Sithis, they spotted us." "Giggles."**


	55. Chapter 55: Ill Tidings

By the first week of Romulus being at Fort Dawnguard everyone admitted there hadn't been a worse fit since the Dragonborn joined and brought back a vampire. All the same, somehow everyone seemed to like him (even Florentius, though he still said Arkay disapproved), so he remained. By that time, it had also become abundantly clear that he had the hugest crush on Lydia, and didn't give a toss who knew it.

Lydia, for her part, was quite taken aback. She'd spent a great deal of her youth in and around Dragonsreach and no one had ever been quite so attentive, opening doors for her, offering to get her food or drink or a shoulder rub when she sat down at the table: She'd seen Balgruuf's wife fussed over like this, and had always wondered why the woman wasn't screaming at everyone to leave her alone. Only a few days of it and she was already prepared to hit him over the head with a shield next time she saw him. Blaise thought he was hilarious, and Lucia thought it was the sweetest thing ever. Quite frankly, the housecarl wasn't sure which was worse.

Walking back in from a quick wash that morning, heartily missing the bathing rooms at Lakeview, Lydia halted and blinked, staring down the hall to the dining area where the man was having a tea party with Lucia, Sorine, and a very confused Durak, with an actual Imperial tea set with blue mountain flowers painted on the porcelain. Lucia was showing the big orc how to hold the cup properly, while he awkwardly tried to copy her movements without crushing the tiny thing, looking vaguely confused and quite as if he'd rather be elsewhere. Romulus was spooning beaten cream onto a steaming platter of tarts, wearing an apron the color of an Afflicted's bile.

"Good morning, Peaches!" Romulus called cheerfully, waving the spoon.

Lydia sighed, making her way over since there really was no way out of it now unless she wanted to skip breakfast. "Do I even want to know where you were hiding a full Cyrodiilic tea service?"

"Romulus can summon a Dremora Merchant," Lucia explained cheerfully, taking a mouthful of tart. She fanned her mouth with her hand, sucking in air as she burnt her tongue.

The housecarl shot him a glance as Romulus quickly poured the girl a cup of cold milk, chilling the pottery with a frost spell before handing it to her with a little flourish. "Can he now? I know someone with a similar ability, but was told it could only be gifted by a Daedric Prince."

Romulus gave her a severely disapproving frown, eyes dancing merrily, "Peaches, you have children to be watching over. You shouldn't be consorting with Daedra worshipers."

"Indeed," she replied, eyebrows raised as she eyed him. He waggled his own at her and glanced her up and down, making her flush and look away. She still couldn't figure out who he reminded her of, but she had a feeling when she did it would explain half her aversion to being singled out like this. Well, that and being singled out in the first place. Frustratingly, there was even a part of her enjoying the attention. Since receiving the Dragonborn as a Thane she hadn't enjoyed the consideration of men as much as she used to, and only now was she remembering that it wasn't always that enjoyable. Not that Romulus wasn't handsome or courteous, it was just that she'd always seen herself with another Nord warrior, someone like herself, and was more than a bit convinced the Imperial mage was stark raving mad under his veneer of flirtatious civility.

"Well, if it isn't the little Master of Mayhem," the mage continued, transferring his gaze over her shoulder.

Blaise groaned as if being away from his bed were causing him physical pain, pulling himself up beside Romulus and leaning against him, nearly falling asleep again. The mage chuckled and set him upright, placing a teacup in unresisting hands and going to stir in two cubes of moonsugar before Lydia cleared her throat, making him roll his eyes and add a dollop of honey instead. Blaise mumbled something that might have been "thanks" and might have been a grunt before picking the cup off the saucer like a perfectly bred Imperial and taking a sip. Sometimes, Lydia wondered how far up his parents had been in the game of Breton politics, especially when he wasn't paying attention and did things with perfect manners, as if he deliberately ate messy when he was fully awake. He was nearly as adept in speaking in a polite, aristocratic clip as Ysmir was, and that certainly wasn't something he'd picked up in the Solitude stables.

"Here you are," Romulus declared, putting a small plate with a still-steaming tart before the boy, rubbing his back soothingly with an affectionate grin. Something inside her did a little flop, and she put her own tart down half-eaten, appetite fleeing abruptly as the boy grumbled again, and Romulus laughed and ruffled his already bed-tussled hair. "So Sorine, did you check out that hole?"

"Not yet," the Dwemer enthusiast replied as Lucia looked rapidly back and forth between them as if to ask "What hole?" Sorine stirred some moonsugar into her tea and sighed happily as she took a sip. "I really don't know how you even noticed it. I've been walking passed that spot for years, and I never spotted it before."

Romulus shrugged. "You usually look forward; I like looking up. Given Skyrim's little dragon problem, I should think everyone would be in the habit again, but then you also have a lot of bears."

Durak choked on his tea, rapidly swallowed it and chuckled. Great. Even the orc liked him.

"What are you two talking about?" Lydia asked, not entirely certain it was a good idea to but curious anyway.

She regretted it instantly when Sorine looked up, eyes shining in that special, enthused way they did when someone mentioned Dwarves. "Romulus noticed a dark spot up on the side of one of the cliffs yesterday evening. It's the right size to be a Dwemer air shaft, though I didn't think they had any ruins out here. I was going to check it out today."

Lucia bounced in her seat. "So there could be a ruin right under Ford Dawnguard? An unexplored one?"

"Yes!" Sorine enthused, practically squealing. "And there's no record of a Dwemer settlement here, so it would be a monumental discovery! Imagine what could be down there!"

"I am," Lydia groaned, thinking of all the Falmer, automatons, ghosts, and giant insects she'd fought in Dwemer ruins. "I can picture it quite clearly." Romulus laughed at her long-suffering tone, unabashedly throwing his head back in mirth. He did have a good laugh, rich and deep.

Lydia reminded herself that he was an Imperial milk drinker that probably only wanted in her pants and went back to dreading facing a Falmer nest.

"Can I go down?" Lucia was asking.

"No!" Lydia, Sorine and Durak all cried as one. Romulus slowly took a sip of his tea, eyes wide but crinkled at the edges as he tried not to laugh at the girl's expense.

"Maybe once everyone is sure it's safe you can ask again, aye?" the mage suggested.

"Alright," Lucia replied morosely, staring down at the table.

Sorine put an arm around the girl, cuddling her in close, "When it's all safe, I'll show you how to make the gas lights bright again, kay?" The child perked up considerably then. "We'll have an easier time exploring once we've chased away all the gloom."

Romulus rolled his eyes. "Why do people always say that? Light doesn't chase shadows away, it creates them. You can't have one without the other."

Durak snorted as everyone looked at the newcomer strangely, "Ever locked yourself in a closet, Romulus? It's all darkness."

"Yes, but if you'd never experienced light, would you know the difference?" Romulus pointed out with what seemed to him to be inescapable logic. Lydia felt vindicated in her belief that he was secretly mad for the fifth time that day. "Light is still creating the shadows by being in your mind telling you that you're surrounded by them. Does the gloom matter to a Falmer? No, because they know no different. They don't have one or the other and so experience neither. It's a shame, really."

"Lydia!"

Everyone jumped and looked toward the hall leading to the main part of the fort, where Isran was walking toward them, looking mildly furious. "You know I've been purposely breeding those dogs to fight vampires, not as pets! They've been specifically chosen from bloodlines as far away as Hammerfell."

Lydia glanced towards the children, both of whom looked just as bewildered as she was. "Yes…is there a problem, Isran?"

The Redguard's jaw worked visibly as he clenched his teeth, "So why, when I brought in that new bitch, did you not tell me that the ice wolf you brought with you was male?"

The housecarl blinked as Romulus burst out in gleeful laughter, realizing what must have happened. Turning to Lucia, she asked, "Precious is a boy?" Honestly, the wolf was so fluffy she'd never noticed—and given the name, she'd never bothered to look, either.

Lucia shrugged. "I don't know. Precious is Precious and doesn't like having her—er, his—leg lifted. Sofie says his hips hurt."

She sighed, resting her chin on her hand, "Well, at least that explains why she—he—and Vigilance never got along." That, and the warhound was far too keen on licking the children's scrapes or cuts for the housecarl's liking, which always set Precious off. Just as well the stablemaster had taken him back.

"If she quickens from this, you'll be getting responsibility of the pups when they're weaned," Isran warned grumpily, stomping away.

"Pups?" Blaise repeated, attention caught at the same time Lucia exclaimed "Puppies?" in a delighted tone. Lydia groaned and put her head in her hands. Breakfast wasn't even over and she was already wanting to hit her head on a wall. And it wasn't even her stalwart suitor's fault today.

Thankfully, at that moment Vori ran in, yelping about a dragon and everyone jumped up to dash outside. Sternly ordering the children to stay put, Lydia raced after them, bursting out the door to stand on the stairs with Celann and Beleval, watching the beast circle the keep, Shouting to the skies and staying just out of the range of the crossbows.

"Don't shoot!" Blaise yelled, watching from the doorway.

"Blaise, get back inside!" Celann snapped, trying to push the boy back, but the younger Breton eeled his way around him and started down the stairs.

"Hold fire!" Lydia yelled, despite the incredulous looks the rest of the Dawnguard were giving her. "He's not hostile!"

"Grandpap!" Blaise called, jumping up and down on the dirt path and waving his arms wildly. "Grandpap!"

The dragon laughed, "Well, well. _Drem yol lok, mal gein."_ As the vast majority of the Dawnguard watched in compete disbelief that turned to shrugs as they recalled just who had adopted this boy, then turned to explain it to the newer members, Paarthurnax backwinged in to a landing, making the ground shake and staggering almost everybody. Romulus seemed rather unaffected, watching this with a slight smile on his face, leaning against his spear-like staff and still wearing his eye-jarring apron.

Blaise draped himself over the dragon's craggy muzzle, cuddling him tightly. "You never come by the house anymore," he pouted.

_"Krosis,_ Blaise. Your mother thought it _ahkon_ to present myself too often to the Blades that watch your dwelling," the dragon rumbled, shifting slightly to spread his wings in the sun.

The boy's suggestion of just what the Blades could do with themselves had Romulus snickering in delight and everyone else glancing at Lydia, wondering if he was allowed to say that. Lydia turned pink, then red when the Imperial poked her in the cheek and told her she looked adorable.

Paarthurnax looked up at her, lifting a laughing Blaise off the ground. "Lydia, _Hofkinspaan,_ where is the Dovahkiin?"

"Where else?" Lydia shrugged, "Running all over Skyrim in a mad dash to complete several tasks at once."

The dragon made a thoughtful noise, halting their conversation to greet Lucia and give her a cuddle. Who would have ever thought dragons could be so affectionate? _"Zu'u suz._ I was hoping to get a _moraan,_ a direction from you. I come with _volzah yunrot,_ ill tidings. It is _praagek_ that I find her."

A sense of foreboding washed over her, as if she had been plunged in ice water. "What is it?" she asked, swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, "What's wrong?"

Paarthurnax looked pointedly at the two hovering children, his slitted eyes flickering once around the courtyard before Isran yelled for everyone to get inside, the dragon obviously wanted privacy and he couldn't exactly head inside to talk to Lydia. Trepidatiously, she descended the stairs to stand before him, long past the strangeness of talking with a dragon rather than trying to kill it.

The old _dovah_ bowed his head. "Some nights since, a _dopaan_ of Blades came to High Hrothgar while I was away and took the children with them. They left a pilgrim witness badly injured, but he vanished before he could recount his experience a second time. _Zu'u lost tovit,_ but I have been unable to find Ysmir to tell her this."

Lydia swayed slightly, then firmed her stance. "The Blades kidnapped Darva and Alesan?" she asked, feeling rage uncoil like a serpent in her belly. "It was Delphine, wasn't it? That paranoid, supercilious bitch! She couldn't have Ysmir so she decided to train herself up a new Dragonborn." Stopping, she rubbed her eyes as stress seemed to gather in a painful ball behind them, "Oh, Stendarr, poor Darva. Who knows what kind of hateful bile that woman's going to spout at her? And after all the work we did to keep her sheltered from all that…"

The dragon sighed, feeling guilty that this had happened in his absence, "I was not there to stop it, Lydia. _Zu'u los ko malur wah noraas._ I am partially to blame for their abduction."

Thinking quickly, Lydia rocked on her toes for a moment. "Last I heard she was heading toward the Reach. She told you why we split up? Well, she had business out there, then was going to continue looking into Darva's abilities. She'd probably head to Windstad, or possibly up to Solitude."

"You might try a courier," Romulus put in, making her jump. She'd had no idea he was still there, let alone right behind her. "They always manage to find people."

Lydia nodded, all business for the moment but fully intending to interrogate the mage later on his apparent ease around dragons, "I'll do that. I'll just say that she should call you," she told the dragon, who was gazing at Romulus curiously.

_"Kusah._ You seem…_malmindok._ I have not met you, but _Zu'u koraav malmindok luft,_ something about you is familiar."

Romulus threw up his hands, looking fed up. "Everyone keeps saying that! Who do you all know that I look so much like?"

"If I could figure that out, you probably wouldn't bother me as much," Lydia replied tiredly.

The mage smirked a bit, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Aww, you do care." Lydia restrained the urge to hit him with effort.

_"Zu'u fend bo,"_ Paarthurnax sighed, "I should be going. I must find Ysmir _ol das ol Zu'u vis."_

"It would help if she would stay in one place for longer than a day," Lydia sighed, being all too familiar with trying to chase down her Thane.

"Indeed," the dragon agreed before taking to the air, _"Vonok,_ Lydia. _Lok su'um morah."_ They covered their faces as the wind whipped around them, dust and even small pebbles flying around in the wake of Paarthurnax's takeoff.

"The courier is supposed to drop by with pleas from the helpless populace any day now," Romulus put in helpfully—weirdly helpfully, actually. "You could send it off with him."

"It would save me having to leave the children…" Lydia noted, conflicted.

"And me," he added, fluttering his eyelashes playfully.

She sighed, "You're trying to drive me insane, aren't you?"

Romulus somehow managed to pull off laughing and pouting at the same time. "You saw through my masterful plot."

Lydia halted, eyes narrowing as she stared at him. "It might be just the sunlight but…is your hair lighter?"

He laughed, tried to hold it back, then laughed again. "Aye," he managed, voice sounding a bit odd, strained. "I've got to…I've the urge to be by meself a bit. Or with meself, or…I've got to go." Turning, he walked quickly away toward the glacial waterfalls, leaving Lydia to stare after him, wondering what on Nirn that had been about, then putting it out of her mind. She had bigger problems than Romulus.

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**I hope everyone had a great Easter! I went to my parents' house, which of course doesn't have internet I can use. :P In life news, I'm still looking for a job, I'm going to have a nephew (!), and I'm cooking a lot. Next chapter might be in two weeks, depending on what happens. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new favorites and followers!**

**afeleon276: I like Romulus too, even if he does have a weird sense of fashion. :P As for Miraak taking over the world, he's from the "Victory or Sovngarde" culture; everything you just pointed out makes him think it's an even better idea. He's so excited and looking forward to the challenge!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: There's no point in making life too easy for the protagonist. I love writing from Frothar's perspective specifically because he doesn't know what is really going on.**

**Wynni: Unfortunately the best we can do for Nelkir is remove the source of the poison. He's already been sort of jaded. Frothar's behavior is being noticed, but everyone knows the real test will be when they're brought back to Dragonsreach. Romulus is (spoilers) and (spoilers), and I really liked (spoilers) because (spoilers). Arkay doesn't really like him because Lydia is 100% right about him being trouble, but only because (spoilers). Miraak is mostly in Daddy mode when we see him...but there will be some times when Daddy mode and Ruthless Dragon Priest mode overlap, and heaven help anyone in the area then. There may or may not be ink treatment.**

**Myriddin: I'm delighted to have you with us! ^_^ I'm always glad to inflict-uh, I mean, share-my particular brand of crazy with new people.**


	56. Chapter 56: Me, Myself and My Other Self

There were few times in his life when Blaise would admit that he was in trouble; this was one of them. He wasn't about to go screeching for the adults like Lucia would, though, he had his pride. Blaise would find a way out of this himself, or die trying. Well, perhaps not _die,_ but he would manage. Sooner or later, the troll he had hopped onto would stop jumping around, and he could get off. He just hoped he hadn't made it mad.

It had seemed so perfect. A few hours before dawn and everyone else either asleep or patrolling outside; no one to stop him from testing out his brilliant idea. He'd snuck down to the enclosure, climbed up on the overlook, and waited until the frost troll he'd had his eye on shuffled underneath him, searching the empty bins hopefully for food. When it had turned away, he'd struck, hopping nimbly onto the creature's back, slipping a little on the armor at first, but finding handholds in the surprisingly thick fur around its neck. For a moment, he was giddy with success.

Then the troll had tried to whack him off his back, and Blaise had realized that he may not have thought this out as much as he should have.

The other trolls gave sleepy grunts from where they were curled up against the wall, having awoken enough to see that nothing was attacking them, so not caring enough to get up and help. The frost troll kept racing around the pen, grunting and trying to scrape him off on the walls, flailing massive arms and even managing to cuff the boy two or three times. Blaise clung to his back like a burr, mental images of the stablemaster back in High Rock trying to break in a new horse and getting thrown for his trouble, shattering half the bones in his body. That thought gave added strength to his clutching fingers, to his thighs where he had wrapped his legs as far as he could around the beast's barrel, but after what seemed like forever he just couldn't hold on anymore; when the troll twisted its shoulders to shake him off he went flying over the edge of the enclosure. Closing his eyes tightly and bracing himself for impact, it was several seconds before he realized that he had stopped. Eyes popping open in disbelief, he nearly cried to see Romulus standing under his hovering form, looking up at him in amusement.

"You know," the mage said, "You remind me of myself when I was young. I was always getting into scrapes like that—though mostly it was with narwhales. Once with an orc."

Blaise blinked, the firelight gilding them both and it finally clicked who Romulus reminded him of. "You kinda look like my Mother," he blurted out. Except Ysmir would certainly not look like she was about to laugh right now, more like she was about to tan his hide and give him extra chores for a week.

The mage grinned, then burst out laughing, catching the boy as whatever spell it was wore off and he abruptly dropped like a string had been cut, letting out a startled squeak he would strenuously deny later. "Ah, Blaise, I knew I liked you. Picked you out specially from that passel of children your mother collected."

"You've met them?" the boy asked, curiously. His legs felt as if they'd been turned to jelly when the man tried to put him down, so he just sat, hoping Romulus didn't think less of him. The mage didn't seem to mind, sitting right down in the dirt with him. Something else occurred to Blaise as he watched Romulus fold gracefully into a cross-legged position. "Wait, so we've met before? You've been by the house?"

"You've not met me," the mage said with a little grin, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "The other me, but not me. This me is the me within me, and I only bring me out for special occasions."

Blinking, the little Breton replied, "What?"

"The old me, which is the new me, since I was much younger than Him that I became," the Imperial explained in a helpful tone of voice.

"You're making my head hurt," Blaise complained, holding one hand to his temple as if he were afraid that side of his skull might decide to leave unexpectedly.

"I have that effect on people," the mage said equably.

"Then…nice to meet you again, I guess. This you? Anyway, thanks," he added, blushing and glancing back at the troll pit.

"It's what I'm here for," Romulus said with a crooked grin, normally dark eyes glittering golden. "You and your inquisitive sister and your nanny's _fantastic_ posterior."

Blaise decided he didn't want to know about that last part. "Lucia? What do you want with Lucia?"

Romulus heaved a great sigh. "The family is split up, Blaise. I'm trying to look out for it, but I'm so scatterbrained when I'm Him that I need to limit myself by being me. I can't do as much when I'm me. I needed to choose. You were the most likely to get into something you couldn't get out of, so I chose you."

"I don't get it," the boy confessed.

"That's alright," Romulus told him with a sad smile. "It takes a certain kind of person to follow my thoughts." Holding up a hand to the boy's face, he snapped his fingers, then caught the boy as he fell forward, asleep. The mage sighed, "And you're not mad. Not yet, anyway."

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* * *

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Blaise wasn't in his bed. Lucia stared blurrily at it for a moment, uncomprehending, then awoke in an instant and ran over to Lydia to wake her, then paused. She would feel awfully foolish for waking Lydia if her imp of a brother was just off making water, or raiding the pantry. So far, the worst trouble he'd gotten into was trying to scale that big hole in the floor using all the bedsheets in the fort tied together, and he hadn't gotten halfway down before he'd reached the end of his improvised rope. That had resulted in a lecture and the decision that both children needed to be monitored constantly. Isran apparently wasn't one to take chances.

Pulling one of the softer furs around her shoulders, Lucia lay back down, waiting for Blaise to return so she could fall back asleep. After counting to three hundred, she got up, taking the fur with her to ward off the chill as she went to investigate.

No one seemed to be up. That was actually fairly unusual. Lucia had noticed that there always seemed to be someone around no matter the time, and Sorine had explained that the vampires they fought mostly came out at night, so they tended to keep odd hours. The fort was so quiet she could faintly hear the wind howling around the mountains outside, all the more pronounced in the dark stone corridors. The torches weren't even lit.

Light ahead, and Lucia raced towards it gladly, halting just before she stumbled into the dining area, staring at a stranger sitting at the table. Hoping he hadn't noticed her, she backed further into the darkness of the hallway, watching. A Breton, she thought, wearing black robes and a bored expression as he stared into his tankard, which cleared when Romulus walked in from the forge area, carrying Blaise like a sleeping baby.

"What was all the commotion?" the Breton slurred. "That really didn't sound like my kind of party."

"He was trying to ride the trolls. Isn't that adorable?" Romulus asked, laying Blaise down on the bench.

The stranger gazed at Blaise for a minute, "Was he now?" he asked, sounding interesting. "Sounds like my kind of_—hic!—_kid. Might be fun when he gets older."

Romulus shook his head as if he disapproved, but he was smiling. "Sam, dear Sam, what am I going to do with you? You are _supposed_ to be watching over our newest little brother! What if Mephala comes after him? She'd eat him alive!"

"That island ish boring!" Sam complained. "How am I supposed to obs—ob…watch him if he's never around? He doesn't seem to want to stay in Apocrypha long, either."

"He was trapped there so long it's a wonder he didn't wind up in the Isles—or with tentacles, at any rate. Do you really blame him for spending as much time as he can bouncing around the mortal plane?" Romulus asked, sinking onto the bench and grabbing a tankard, which Sam filled with whatever he had been drinking, somehow not emptying his own tankard in the process.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I think we can finally say for_—hic!—_certain that Hermaeus Mora ish gone, Miraak ish the new Daedra of bib-bibliophilism, and leave him to it. No matter what Mephala keeps screeching."

"You're not a family man, Sanguine," the mage replied, slapping the other man heartily on the back, "How would you feel if your immortal sister got spontaneously eaten by her own champion?"

The Breton blinked a few times, "I have a sister? I suppose I wouldn't mind too much, since I didn't notice her before." Romulus seemed to think that was hilarious and started to giggle. Sam watched him for a few moments, swaying in his seat. "Hey, how long are you going to_—hic!—_wear dat? It's been…a while. Can you even stay like dat for very_—hic!—_long?"

All the mirth seemed to leave the Imperial as he stared down into his drink, his long fingers toying idly with the tankard. "Not for too much longer. Keeping it in is getting harder. I feel like my head's going to explode and leave confetti everywhere. And kittens. Dead, evil kittens. Or possibly goat cheese…no, kittens. The lines are too blurred now for me to be me and not Him for very long."

"Heeey! Don't look so_—hic!—_down! We can still have fun when you're insane. We did before!" Sam assured him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "You should stop trying to_—hic!—_hold it in. Ish not good for you."

"I still have some human concerns that need attending to," Romulus explained, standing on the bench and pacing back and forth along the edge, not teetering at all. "I went from having one descendant to having eight of them, even if six are adopted. But now Darva is missing. I can't find her, either—neither one of me. The Blades swooped in like a winged fish and took my littlest grandbaby, and stashed her someplace so Aedra I feel like I stared into Magnus too long when I look for her."

"I feel dat way when I stare at Dibella's tits, but I think she doesh it on purpose," Sam revealed after a moment.

"Language, Sanguine," Romulus replied, "There are children present."

"Childr…" the stranger trailed off, peering around the room with squinted eyes until he spotted her. He brightened. "If it_—hic!—_ishn't Little Lucy!"

"Lucia," Romulus corrected him, waving for her to join them. Hesitating a moment, she walked forward carefully, completely confused. "I take it you only made sure the adults wouldn't wake up during your visit? Typical."

"You're not so mush fun like dis," Sam complained, chin hitting the table even as he watched Lucia approach. "I like you," he told the girl, gesturing with his drink. "Yer mum was…she really liked the mead."

"It killed her," Lucia told him flatly, her aunt having told her quite bluntly that her uselessness was probably the reason her mother drank herself to death.

"Thash too bad," Sam said, holding out a hand to her as she sat across from him. "I'm Sam."

Politely, the girl shook his hand, even though he smelled of ale so strongly her head spun a little.

"You kinda look like her, ya'know," Sam told her. "In the face. I think. I didn't look at her face too often. She had huge…" he patted the air in front of his chest. "You might get dem too. Be sure to tell all the boys where yer facesh is."

Lucia wrinkled her nose. "Boys are gross," she informed him.

"You'll change yer mi—" he paused mid-dismissive wave to peer at her again, then seemed to deflate. "No, you won't. Damn."

Deciding that drunk people made no sense, Lucia turned to Romulus, who pulled a strawberry torte out of nowhere and handed it to her with an absentminded pat on the hand. "What are you two talking about?"

"Rommy is lo—ooooo—sing his mind" Sam explained unsteadily. "Again. He never does keep it for very long. I'm not entirely sure he_—hic!—_gets it back, either." He brightened again. "Speaking of_—hic!—_Magnus, have you seen Winterhold lately? Bal's balls, but we're missing all the fun on Miraak watch!"

"Who's Miraak?" Lucia asked, taking the steaming cup of something frothy and sweet-smelling Romulus handed her—also pulled out of thin air. The mage's hair and eyes were decidedly lighter, making her stare.

"That really depends on your mother," Romulus replied, collapsing on the bench next to her, looking thoughtful.

"Darva's_—hic!—_father," Sam revealed happily. "And wasn't dat a_—hic!—_joy to watch happen! I've been trying to get there for years, but Sheo keeps_—hic!—_cock blocking."

Romulus looked revolted, "Sam, that's my granddaughter! I didn't want her consorting with Daedra! Look what happened to me!"

"You didn't_—hic!—_come out so bad," Sam slurred cajolingly, then snickered, "Besides, she ended up doing some 'consorting' of her own!"

"This is why Mara hates you," the mage informed his drunken friend, hands pressed uselessly over the little girl's ears.

"It'sh no problem," the Breton countered, turning to Lucia. "Girly, how much do you udder—understand of what we've_—hic!—_been talking about?"

Lucia looked from Sam's slightly bleary expression to Romulus's, which kept flickering between looking like he was worried to like he wanted to laugh. "Not a lot," she admitted, "but I know that you really shouldn't say dirty things. Someone will wash your mouth out with soap."

Sam pouted and Romulus clapped a hand over his mouth, holding in laughter, but his eyes looked pained. "Let it out, Sheo," Sam advised, drink sloshing around as he gestured. "You can come back after checking in with dat stick in the_—hic!—_butt steward of yours." Laughter finally won, and Romulus roared with it, his hair becoming shorter as she watched, turning white, his features changing into someone else's entirely, so that he resembled himself very little. The Imperial girl gaped for a long moment as he cackled, unable to process what had just happened.

"Uncle Pelagius?" she finally managed.

The mirth stopped abruptly, and he sat up to gaze at her with sharp amber eyes. "Nap time, I think," he replied, and snapped his fingers in front of her face.

**.**

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**Hi people! So this week I got to gape in dismay as I watched Troublemaker hop her furry little butt from the floor onto the countertop in one go. How am I supposed to keep them out of trouble when they can get past all the chinchilla proofing? (Obviously it is not chinchilla proof, since it does not work, but I don't know what else to call it.) [Insert frustrated noise.]**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Not the entire world, just a lot of factions and people that can kill her on a whim.**

**Roger509: You assume correctly.**

**afeleon276: Yes, the Ink Treatment, as coined by Wynni. As for Miraak chilling...you've met Nords, right? :P**

**Wynni: Who is Hannah and why is she so holy? Sheo took a shine to Blaise...and Lydia's posterior. And her steel-covered assets. And her Haskill-like ability to shrug off chaos. Also, Lucia is adorable.**

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**Next week (probably): Ysmir finally makes it to Winterhold. **


	57. Chapter 57: Containment

She heard the screaming first. Cries for mercy and the normal battlecries she had become accustomed to since coming to Skyrim, along with a strange hissing that got louder as she urged Jughead into a gallop, only to pull up short at the sight that greeted her.

Winterhold—unimpressive to begin with—was in shambles. Ysmir watched people duck into houses pursued by strange, glowing orbs of light that looked something like wisps, only darker. The creatures flew to and fro, wreaking havoc on whatever they touched, and seeming to take a bit of delight in destroying whatever was nearest. Beyond that, the College was encased in a sphere of magicka so strong it made her hair stand on end and filled her with a sense of foreboding. For a long moment the Dragonborn could only stare in shock, her senses overwhelmed as the storm that constantly hovered over the town whipped cold wind around them. For once there was no veil of snow, just the drifts snaking across the road in serpentine ribbons but leaving the scene eerily clear.

An explosion near at hand brought her attention back to the town as Jughead reared, unnerved. Ysmir had to grab the saddle to keep from falling off.

"Get in your homes!" a familiar voice rang out, and Ysmir looked up from where she fought to keep Jughead calm. Faralda stood between several Winterhold guards and the…thing that was attacking them, holding up a ward.

"What is that thing?" one of the guards demanded. "What have you witches unleashed?"

"Oh, for…" Ysmir didn't finish, leaving the horse as a lost cause and rushing in, enveloping the creature in a fireball, knowing the Altmer's ward would keep her and the guards safe from the resulting explosion. It did little except gain its attention, but it gave Faralda a chance to shove the guards towards the door beyond them. "What's going on?" she demanded, dodging as the thing lunged at her.

"That idiot Ancano is doing something to the Eye!" the Altmer bit out, sending an ice storm to cover the thing as the Dragonborn took shelter behind her own ward. To Ysmir's alarm it still appeared relatively unaffected, though it did slow for a few seconds. "First these things started spewing out of it then that wall appeared around the College. We can't get in!"

"How do you kill these things?" Ysmir cried as it dodged her lightning, doing some frantic dodging of her own as it came for her. "Nothing seems to be working!"

"They're made of magic; they must be resistant to it," Faralda surmised, then there was no more time for talking as another anomaly struck from behind a guard's corpse like a viper.

Ysmir jumped back as the thing darted at her, switching to simpler spells so it would have less recovery time between dodging. The anomaly hissed as her spell finally reached it, a tendril of lightning arching over the rounded form before it writhed out of the way, ducking under her guard to get at her.

Being hit by that thing was like nothing Ysmir had ever experienced. She yelled in surprise, falling back against a house as the very touch of the thing seemed to turn her flesh to ice. Hand going to her side, she hastily erected a simple ward as it dove at her again, watching it bounce off with angry, thwarted cries. Thrusting the ward forward like a shield, she forced it upward so she could duck under it, rolling until she was away from the wall and creating a barrier of lightning on the ground as several more started for her, catching them unawares. To her satisfaction, two emitted a strange shriek and disintegrated. The other simply turned and headed back to fight a man armed with only his fists. Distracted by his tenacity, Ysmir was caught by her earlier adversary as it grazed against her shoulder. Her arm numbed instantly, and she threw up her flame cloak, which seemed to deter it, anyway.

"Faralda!" she yelled, summoning a Storm Atronach with her good arm, "They don't like lightning much!"

An anomaly darted at her from either side, and she summoned her more usual, spherical ward, actually cutting one in half as it snapped up around her. Rubbing her arm absently with a hand that glowed the bright golden yellow of Healing, Ysmir frowned, stooping to lift a soul gem fragment from the ground, perfectly sheared from the ward. "That's unusual…" The bouncing of the second pest off the ward above her interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced up just in time to see her Atronach die a painful death as four more swarmed it. Dropping the ward, she tossed the soul gem fragment up and a little behind the anomaly, which dodged it to drop in front of her, more or less lining it up with those still hovering around the dying Atronach. Ysmir sent a Thunderbolt to engulf them, feral grin crossing her face as they collapsed into piles of powder and gems on the trampled, muddy snow of the road.

"More of them!" Faralda warned, gazing with horror up at the sphere around the College. The anomaly that had attacked Ysmir bobbed towards her, and the Destruction Master took it out with an Ice Storm, leaving nothing but a pile of glowing blue powder.

Ysmir followed her gaze, feeling her heart sink. At least a dozen new aberrations were heading toward them, hissing and weaving as they dodged the attacks thrown by the mages on the walkway. Even more were breaking off from the swirling force surround the College, arching away to join their fellows. Arniel Gane was at the base of the stairs, curled against the wall as his ward flickered out, obviously severely injured and almost out of magicka. She took out the one harassing him with a firebolt, but it was obviously only a matter of time until another one took interest. Most of the remaining ones congregated on the townsman, who disintegrated in a familiar manner. Ysmir spared a moment to hope the guards hadn't realized their fellow townsperson was a reanimated corpse; the College had a bad enough reputation with the town as it was.

"Noyoki!" Faralda yelled, obviously forgetting her new name for the moment, "Don't just stand there! We have to get to cover, there are too many of them!"

"Get to Arniel and put up the best ward you have!" she ordered, eyes narrowing as she tracked the anomalies' approach. "Pull him under the stairs if you can."

Faralda didn't need to be told twice—she'd been an instructor too long not to be wary of being caught in an errant spell. Ysmir wasn't planning on casting a spell, though. There weren't enough spells in the world to defeat the number of orbs spinning out of that globe, even if she wasn't running a bit low on magicka.

As soon as the two mages were under cover, Ysmir threw a few chain lightning spells at the incoming wave of anomalies. They swirled for a moment as the bolts passed from one to another, leaving them injured and angry. Like a flock of birds suddenly changing direction, they started for her.

"Ward yourself!" Faralda shrieked. "Your flame cloak can't keep them all off, even if you could keep it up forever."

Ignoring her, Ysmir took a deep breath, planted her feet, and raised her face to the sky. _"Strun Bah Qo!"_

The anomalies paused a moment, as if conferring. The storm Ysmir had called down upon them descended in that moment, arching lightning through the town. It raced over the cobbles and up and down the thatch—Ysmir spent most of her remaining magic shooting frost spells at the resulting fires, and she hated frost magic. A bolt passed right through her, and she paused, expecting damage. None came, and she looked up in wonder. She'd only ever used this Shout once. She'd learned the last Word at Skuldafn just before she defeated Alduin, and had been surrounded in the courtyard by draugr deathlords, a Dragon Priest, and two ancient dragons that seemed content to watch, for the moment. Outnumbered and low on everything, she'd Shouted desperately, certain she would die.

The devastation the _thu'um_ had left in its wake had shocked her, but it was the outright approval of the watching dragons that had convinced her that perhaps this Shout was one better left for emergencies, especially since it could not distinguish between friend and foe.

Blue dust and soul gem splinters rained down on her from the cloud of anomalies. It lasted minutes, and Ysmir could only watch and pray she hadn't made things worse as the electric storm caressed the barrier around the College. Finally, the last anomaly was dead and no more seemed inclined to spawn at the moment. Giving a shaky sigh and brushing the remains of the anomalies out of her hair, Ysmir made her way over to the pair of mages as Faralda's ward flickered out.

They were staring at her as if she'd grown a second head.

"Noyoki…" Faralda began hesitantly.

"Ysmir. I go by Ysmir now, remember?" she smiled reassuringly, helping the Altmer to her feet.

"That was no spell. You Shouted," Arniel stated accusingly. "You can Shout."

"You're the Dragonborn?" Faralda asked, eyes wide. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Uh…modesty?" Ysmir offered, feeling sheepish.

Arniel was pulling himself to his feet, excited, "Shouting. That's amazing. I don't suppose you'd be willing to do that a few more times, would you? Somewhere else, of course. For research purposes?"

Ysmir crossed her arms and gave him a stern look. "No."

"We have bigger issues now," Faralda interjected when it looked like Arniel would protest. "We can't get into the College, the people inside can't get out, and the Archmage is missing."

"He's missing?" Ysmir gasped, starting for the stairs. The others followed, though Arniel was slow about it.

"Since this started. He and Mirabelle went in the Hall of Elements to confront Ancano, but…we're not entirely sure what happened. There was some kind of explosion. One of the apprentices went in to investigate and pulled Mirabelle out, but he didn't see Savos," the Destruction Master explained.

"What does Mirabelle have to say about all this?" Ysmir asked as they joined the group hovering on the second light tower of the Walkway.

"Not much," Colette said dryly. "Now would you all be quiet and let me work?"

Ysmir's breath caught in her throat as she saw the Master Wizard. Mirabelle was pale and unmoving. She obviously had a broken arm and several frosty patches on her robes where she'd been attacked by anomalies.

"What was that spell?" Drevis asked, looking intrigued. Ysmir rolled her eyes, for once agreeing with the twins about mages. Most of the faces here were tense, but there was much more curiosity than fear, and in her opinion that was distinctly unhealthy.

Well, the cat was already half out of the bag, she supposed. "It was a Shout. I'm the Dragonborn. No, I'm not doing it again unless I absolutely have to. Last thing we need right now is a dragon coming around looking for a fight."

Whatever he had been about to protest, apparently that last thought trumped it, because his mouth shut with a click of teeth audible even over the whooshing noise the barrier made. Ysmir observed it critically. It reminded her of nothing so much as a blizzard, though she doubted Clear Skies would work on a storm that was magically born and mostly solid. Just being near the thing made her teeth ache and her head throb. The crackle of electricity from the storm and wall weren't helping either, making her skin prickle and her hair stand on end.

"We've tried everything we can think of," Tolfdir told her, coming up to stand beside her. "Every spell and technique we know. Nothing so much as dents it."

"Well, it's spinning," she pointed out, not tearing her eyes from the thing. "That's helping deflect damage and not allowing you to build on what you've already done. Brilliant, really. I wonder if we can get wards to do that?"

Tolfdir was staring at her. "I thought you weren't interested in magical experimentation?"

"Not for its own sake, no," she replied with a shrug, "but this would have immediate, practical applications if you could manage to hold back weapons as well as magic."

A sudden flare made them all step back as the amount of magic spiked. When they were able to blink away the dazzle, the wall of force was several steps closer to them. "Perhaps we should take this elsewhere?" Tolfdir suggested after a few moments of everyone staring in mute dismay.

"Indeed," Drevis agreed loudly from behind them. They turned as he rose, motioning to a Nord in novice robes. "Apprentice, think you can carry the Master Wizard to the inn?"

"Of course," he said, stooping to lift the woman. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, but he had his people's size and strength, and apparently had no trouble carrying a full-grown unconscious woman.

"Be careful!" Colette snapped, following quickly as they all began to move toward the town.

Ysmir and Tolfdir brought up the rear, the former casting glances over her shoulder every once in a while. She wouldn't be able to speak with the Augur until this was dealt with. Besides, whatever Ancano was doing with the Eye couldn't bode well for anyone. She dreaded what the Thalmor might want with the thing, but it almost sounded as if Ancano were acting alone. If that was the case, his career as a Thalmor might very well be over.

"So," her old mentor said, "all this time you've been the Dragonborn, and you never told us."

"I was supposed to save the world, Tolfdir, not sit around Shouting so that you could study the effects," she told him.

"You might have said something," he persisted, sounding genuinely hurt.

Ysmir halted, taking a deep breath as she turned to look at the old man, seeing new lines of worry carven into his careworn features. "I know. But I didn't want anyone here knowing. Even after defeating Alduin, there are many who dislike the idea of my existence. I've been told to my face that I'm a loose end of an ancient prophesy—that I should have had the courtesy to die with the World Eater and let the world move on to bigger and better things. How awful would it have been if you all felt the same?"

He looked a little shocked. "Who would have the effrontery to say such a thing? You are a brilliant young woman, Ysmir. I have no doubt your contribution to the world has only just started."

"That's what they're afraid of," she said with a grin, oddly touched. "Also," she added wryly, "I had my fill of being a test subject for papers of racial abilities in inter-racial children."

Despite everything, that made Tolfdir laugh, although with more than a hint of bashfulness. "Brelyna became very tired of being asked to call up Ancestor's Wrath for comparison."

Suddenly, Ysmir felt her stomach drop, heart racing as she looked around. "Tolfdir? Where is Brelyna?"

The smile fell from his face. "She never made it out. We think they are still alive, but Brelyna, Urag, and several of the new apprentices are still inside."

.

* * *

.

Most of the town seemed to be cowering in the jarl's longhouse, leaving the inn free for the mages to inhabit. Dagur had practically begged them to stop whatever it was they were doing, and upon learning that it was a Thalmor agent that was the start of the trouble, had grown very quiet. Tolfdir had mumbled something about a "diplomatic incident" and sank into one of the chairs around the fire. The innkeeper hadn't said anything else, though, just showing the apprentice where to put Mirabelle and reflexively polishing the same set of glasses again and again.

Ysmir had eventually given in and answered questions about being Dragonborn, until Phinis suggested curtly that they had other things they should be bending their minds to. They had broken up into little clusters of two or three, muttering to each other in various parts of the room as Ysmir joined Tolfdir at the fire, content to just stare at the flames and let her thoughts wander.

Irritatingly, they wandered to Miraak. She wondered what he would make of this. Honestly, she knew very little about him, though she thought he would be in one of the groups trying to find solutions, rather than the ones trying to unravel the magical theory behind what had happened. As he was now, he might just walk right through the barrier, knock Ancano over the head, and take the artifact for himself.

Ysmir shuddered to think what Miraak would do with something like the Eye of Magnus. With any luck he wouldn't catch wind of this, though it was supremely doubtful. Were it up to Ysmir, that wretched thing would be shoved into Septimus Signus's Dwemer lockbox with the door melted shut and dropped into the Sea of Ghosts. There were parts even Argonians couldn't reach, saying that the pressure became too great. She would drop it there.

Though with her luck a seamonster would eat it, then promptly beach itself.

"Ysmir?" She looked up to see Colette frowning down at her. "Mirabelle wants to see you."

She nodded, rising and heading into the room where the Restoration Master had been working. Mirabelle looked a little better, though her lips were still slightly blue. Belatedly, Ysmir dug out some ice wraith essence and handed it to her.

The Master Wizard downed the potion with a grimace. "You'd think things that look like they're made out of ice would taste better," she complained.

"I'll mix the next one up with snowberries for you," Ysmir assured her wryly, relieved. If Mirabelle could complain about something so trivial she must not be as badly off as she looked. "What do you need?"

"We know that Ancano is attempting to use the Eye," she began, setting the bottle aside. "We don't know why, or what he is trying to do. What we do know is that the only thing that can stop him is another artifact of Magnus."

"And 'we' know this how?" Ysmir asked.

"I don't know the details," Mirabelle said hopelessly, shaking her head. "Savos told me that we needed the Staff of Magnus. He recently returned from a joint mission with the Synod—by joint mission, I mean he went to retrieve a book they stole before Urag went after them—and says there was a great massing of power in the ancient city of Labyrinthian. He believes the Staff is there but…" she looked down, fingers plucking at the covers. "He was very reluctant to go. There was an…incident there when he was but an apprentice, apparently. He says he was the sole survivor of the place, and hid the key to the door within Shalidor's Maze."

Ysmir groaned. "So I need to go through Shalidor's Maze as well as going through Labyrinthian trying doors? All for a lousy staff?"

"You? You're planning to go?" she asked, astonished.

That gave the Dragonborn pause. "Actually, I'm so used to just doing things that it never occurred to me that I wouldn't be going. So," she finished with a shrug, just deciding she'd rather do this than wait around for someone else that may never come back, "I know where Labyrinthian is, what else do I need to know?"

Mirabelle shook her head. "That's as much as I know. Savos hid the key to the Labyrinthian inside Shalidor's Maze, which was created to test strong mages. You'd be advised to take someone with you."

"I'll be fine," Ysmir assured her, standing. "You get better, and help keep the town safe. I'll return as soon as I can." After all, Labyrinthian was just a tomb, right? She'd been through so many tombs the Master Wizard's mind would spin.

Her optimism vanished once she got outside, though. The wind had picked up and the snow returned, but the whoosh of the barrier was still faintly audible. Walking to the edge of town, she halted, tears starting.

Jughead lay on the ground, frost already forming on his fur and saddle. His hooves were covered with the disintegrated remains of anomalies, but his coat was dotted with spots where they had gotten him. She walked over, dropping into the snow beside his head and stroking his cold nose, memories assailing her for a few minutes before she pulled herself together. "You fought valiantly, Jughead," she told him. "If you were a Nord, you'd be in Sovngarde right now. I'll miss you," she leaned down, kissed his forehead, then stripped the saddle from him. Not wanting to leave him for the wolves, she incinerated his corpse, watching until even the bones were ash.

She walked down the road a ways before summoning Arvak. The people of Winterhold had been through enough today.

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**Hello! Sorry for the late chapter, but I've had a bit of a hectic week. I had a couple of job interviews with a company this week, but eventually ended up turning the job down, because it wasn't what they said it would be, and where they said it would be. It really, really sucked. Anyway, there won't be a chapter next week because I'll be traveling. It's my birthday Thursday! I'm going to be visiting my parents and, with any luck, dragging my reluctant boyfriend with me. **

**In chinchilla news, they are still fluffy. I bought them a litter box but I have no idea if they will use it or not. I hope so, because their cage smells like...well, like rodents go to the bathroom in it. Also, we keep going through bedding like hotcakes and maybe this will make it so we don't have to change it so very often. I can dream.**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! Also, if you haven't checked it out yet, remember that I posted the prequel story on here! **

**afeleon276: I'm glad you enjoy him. He is a fun little stinker, isn't he? The fetching of the Brats should happen in about five to seven chapters. Too many spoilers ruins the plot. ;P**

**Wynni: Sorry, your Augie curiosity will just have to languish in un-fulfillment for now. But hey, chins in balls. :D**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Once again, sorry about your wish to know what Augie saw. Yes, I imagine knowing how detested she is makes Delphine sleep sweet as a baby. Well, about as well as she can with one eye open for Thalmor. **


	58. Chapter 58: Messages

The first day, Lydia looked around for him, expecting him to pop up at any moment to open a door or offer flirtatiously to carry her shield for her. Both the children were still deeply asleep that morning, and she had decided that she was going to set him straight once and for all on what his chances were without their possible eavesdropping—only to discover that he'd left a note pinned to Florentius saying that he was sorry, but he had to pop out for a few days to help a relative. The second day she started to realize that she had gotten used to being pampered a bit, and found herself waiting for a split second before opening doors or gathering her food to head to the table, accustomed to him appearing at that moment to insistently do whatever it was for her. She didn't think anyone noticed, but people did seem to glance her way whenever they speculated about his sudden departure, as if they suspected she had something to do with it. The children were fairly morose about it, even if they were full of stories about dreams of riding on trolls or talking to smelly men that knew their birth parents.

By the third day, Lydia reluctantly admitted to herself that she sort of missed him. He hadn't been at Fort Dawnguard very long, but it felt bigger without him there—quite possibly because he had always seemed to suddenly go from one end of the Fort to the other in no time at all, but…She sighed, quite annoyed with herself that she was preoccupied with Romulus when poor little Darva was dealing with a spiteful Blades' mistress who would spit venom about half the people the child loved. That some of those people were dragons was beside the point.

"I don't know, Isran," Durak was saying as he walked into the dining area that fourth day. "He's never been this late before unless something happened. I mean, there was that one time he showed up having been infected and begging for a cure, and that other time he had to run around the Aalto Plains because a dragon had moved in, but it's been over a week. Even the few times he didn't have a message to deliver he would stop by to flirt with Celann."

"We were not flirting!" Celann protested from down the table.

"Maybe you weren't," the orc grunted before turning back to his thoughtful leader. "I think we need to send someone to Riften, see if any calamities have hit that may have waylaid him. Otherwise we might have another kidnapping on our hands."

"I'll go," Lydia volunteered before thinking, just wanting to be somewhere she wasn't expecting a cheerful Imperial mage to be around every corner. When they stared at her in surprise, she shrugged sheepishly, "I have an urgent message for my Thane, as well, don't forget. Blaise and Lucia know you all well enough to be alright for a day or so."

"Right," Durak shifted uncomfortably, "Your…dragon caller. Is he coming by again? He scared all the chickens off laying, and I'm amazed that cow didn't bolt."

"Shags is used to it," Lucia piped up as she slid onto the bench next to Lydia, carrying a plate of toasted bread with butter and the little jar of strawberry jam that had mysteriously showed up in her bag. "Dragons used to come by the house all the time. Odahviing still does."

"Sweet Aedra," Celann muttered into his tea, "she knows a dragon by name."

"I know several dragons by name," Lucia interjected, having heard him quite clearly. "Most of them don't stop by a second time, though."

Lydia shifted slightly so she was facing the girl. "Lucia, will you and your brother be all right if I go to Riften for a day or two?" she asked, mostly for Isran's benefit, as the Redguard was looking even more skeptical than usual.

The little girl nodded without hesitation. "Sure. I was going to show Sorine how to make cheese, and Gunmar wanted to learn how to make tallow dips. He thinks troll fat will make a longer-lasting candle than cow or pig fat."

"We should get a cow of our own, Isran," Tilde called, "I don't know about the cheese yet, but having our own supply of butter has been amazing."

"I'm running a vampire hunting ring, not a bakery!" Isran snapped.

"You could do with a few more amenities around here, Isran," Lydia informed him tartly, much to the leader's surprise. "You've pretty much got the place completely fixed and running, and you're getting callers from Morrowind and Cyrodiil now. You have both the room and the coin to make this place self-sufficient. Not only will that help your expenses in the long run, it will go a damn sight farther impressing callers than a bunch of scruffy mercenary types who clean their armor first and their front room last. You might even get a few patrons if they think you're worth investing in."

"I'm not looking forward to eating my own cooking again," Agmaer agreed. "It was nice having Romulus and Lucia around wanting to cook things. We haven't had anything but what basic things the rest of us knew how to make in so long…and we have too many other duties to spend much time cooking. Even at her age, Lucia's a better cook than most of us combined. Come on, Isran; you have to see how much morale has improved. I mean, it was never _bad,_ but having good things to eat that we didn't have to go to Riften and buy has cut down on the grousing considerably."

Isran had crossed his arms, glaring around the breakfast table and tapping a foot, which Lydia hadn't seen him do since Serana showed up looking for Ysmir. "So this is something you all want? Civilians underfoot, getting in the way, putting big targets on their backs for the vampires to use them as hostages?"

"Vampires haven't actually attacked the Fort in years," Celann pointed out. "And we don't have to take weaklings, either, just someone that can hold their own long enough for help to arrive."

Expecting him to rebut with something about chores building discipline, Lydia was rather taken aback when Isran sighed and relented, telling Durak to go with Lydia to Riften and start looking for likely candidates. Apparently even the stoic leader of the Dawnguard dreaded having to eat his own cooking again.

.

* * *

.

Blaise should really know better than to sneak up on someone when they're milking a cow, but he did it anyway, nearly frightening Lucia off her stool early the next morning and making Shags turn her massive shaggy head to see what was going on. "I'm bored," he complained.

"So get a brush and start combing out Shag's hair," she suggested. "You know she likes that."

"That's not going to help," he whined dismissively, slouching down onto the ground next to her and leaning back against Precious, who sighed but didn't move. Lucia thought maybe he was missing his girlfriend, since Isran had put a fence up between the kennels and the rest of the Fort. "Ever since Romulus left things have been so boooorrrriiiinnnnggg! And now Lydia's off to Riften for a few days with Durak and Isran won't let us out of sight for fear we might suddenly be stolen by scamps, or something. This is no fun at all."

"You have things to do," Lucia pointed out inarguably.

"Chores! That's all this place is, is chores, chores, chores!" he spat disgustedly. "They have armored trolls, but all I'm allowed to do is watch them or clean up their poo. They have dogs, but we're not allowed to pet or play with them. They have weapons, but we can't touch them without supervision. There's a Dwarven ruin, but only the adults are allowed down in it, even after Sorine threw in an alchemy bomb to gas out anything living and a few Atronachs to kill anything mechanical. This is stupid! I wish Romulus would come back!"

Lucia paused, feeling bitterly disappointed about not being allowed into the ruin, even though Sorine had been going down there for two days. She had brought up some interesting stuff, too, but mostly sketches of what the room was like and where things were placed, as well as another spider worker to go with the one she already had. It was deeply unfair.

Blaise noticed and smirked, knowing he was getting somewhere. "Come on, Lu; a Dwarven ruin! It's not like it's not safe now—let's go down!"

His sister looked up, appalled. "No way!" she cried, but there was some doubt there, Blaise knew. He opened his mouth to press his case when a commotion near the entrance made them both look up.

Belevan was walking alongside a pair of anxious Dunmer, talking animatedly. The couple looked rather worse for wear, their clothing tattered and worn through at the joints. Celann jogged down to meet them, listened for a moment before heading back into the Fort at a run, calling for Isran. The children exchanged glances, wondering what was going on.

"You go," Lucia said before he could do more than gaze speculatively at the door, "I need to finish up here."

The boy grinned, glancing at the Dunmer. "Information is always better from the source," he announced decisively, hopping up and strolling over, a cautious ice wolf loping after him. Lucia watched him talk Belevan around when the Wood Elf apparently told him off for being nosy, but Blaise was perfectly capable of being charm itself when he wanted something. Just as she suspected, it wasn't long before he was running back over, just as Isran was emerging from the Fort, beckoning the Dunmer inside.

"A clan of vampires in Morrowind took over a whole town!" he said gleefully, "This is great!"

"What's great about that?" Lucia gasped, horrified, "Those poor people!"

Blaise waved that aside, "The Dawnguard'll take care of them. But to do that, they need to head to Morrowind for a bit. It's the perfect time to go down that ruin! Lydia can't stop us if she's not here, and neither can anyone else!"

"They would if they could!" she argued, "Blaise, it could be dangerous down there!"

Blaise rolled his eyes, "Sorine goes down alone and has time to draw. I think we'll be fine."

"We'll be missed!"

"Not if we go down right after they leave. They'll have just seen us saying goodbye to everyone."

"It's a long way down."

"I know where Gunmar keeps the rope now."

"We'll get in trouble."

"We'll be back out before anyone notices."

"You're terrible!"

Blaise grinned irrepressively. "You want to go."

Lucia sighed, putting an arm around Precious and scratching along the ruff of his neck as he panted happily. "You're going to do this with or without me, aren't you?" He shrugged, which she took as admission, and she groaned. "All right. But only to keep you out of trouble!"

"Trouble's my middle name," he rejoined, mischievous twinkle back in his eyes. "Blaise Trouble Lebeau Dragonssen."

"Your middle name is Martin," she corrected, eyes narrowed.

"Pot-tay-to; po-tah-to," he waved his hand as if shooing away an errant insect, then paused to look at her strangely. "How do you even know that?"

She shrugged. "Didn't you tell Romulus? He seemed to like that."

Blaise scratched his head, "I must have mentioned it sometime," he muttered doubtfully. "What's your middle name, then?"

"Marilla," she supplied.

"Alright then, Lucia Marilla Dragonssdatter," Blaise said confidently, good humor back in force, "I will see you after Isran heads out with half the Dawnguard. And no snitching!" he called as he ran off to prepare.

Lucia exhaled heavily, exasperated, "I never snitch," she replied to his retreating form, grabbed the milk pail and headed inside.

.

* * *

.

Lydia rubbed her head, trying to get the ache to subside. "This is not what I was expecting," she told Durak, who grunted.

The courier smiled sheepishly. "What can I say; I'm a handsome man," he said, peering at them both through the bars of the Riften jail.

"What did you do?" Lydia inquired, wondering if she had enough on her to pay off his bounty.

The smile slipped from the courier's face. "I was at the Bee and Barb when I saw a man looking a bit down. He was polished and handsome and I thought I might cheer him up. Turns out the war has torn his family apart—and by that I mean they think he's lost his mind for not supporting Ulfric. Hey, I'm all about neutrality, my business pretty much depends on it, but I'll hear a man out when he needs it…so we went upstairs and talked. Things were just getting interesting when the Hold Guard barged in, accused me of being an Imperial sympathizer and taking advantage of the Jarl's son, and hauled me off to prison without trail or bail."

The housecarl groaned, resting her head none-too-gently against the wooden beam beside the cell. "This is ridiculous. When is this war going to end?" Honestly, after ten years of perpetual stalemate something should have given. Towns had been taken and reclaimed on both sides, even a Hold capitol once or twice, but nothing to really tip the balance of power. Occasionally, Lydia got the horrible feeling that the war would only end if her Thane chose a side and actively aided in the war effort. She'd tried peace talks once, when she needed Balgruuf's palace to trap Odahviing, but that had ended in her deciding she liked neither Ulfric nor Tullius and washing her hands of the whole matter.

Galmar talking her up to Ulfric like a public relations brood mare hadn't helped matters.

Durak shrugged. "When Ulfric's dead or the Empire gives up. Whichever happens first."

Lydia scoffed and resumed her in-depth examination of the wood grain and inch before her eyes, wishing her Thane was there to talk some sense into the Jarl. At the very least, being Dragonborn got her listened to, even if her advice wasn't followed. But Ysmir wasn't there, it was only Lydia, and given Law-Giver's reactions to anything having to do with Saerlund thus far, Lydia was fairly certain interfering at this point would only result in their imprisonment.

Which meant, much as she hated to admit it, she needed to call in on another of Ysmir's contacts.

Without a word, she turned and left the prison, leaving Durak behind as he tried to talk the guards into at least letting him see if there were any notes for the Dawnguard in the courier's things. Keeping to a brisk trot that discouraged conversation, she made her way down the Keep stairs and across to Plankside, then down to the lower levels of the Riften Canal. Lydia took a deep breath and regretted it as the distinctly unpleasant aromas of rotting fish and refuse filled her lungs. And there were fouler things to come.

Steeling herself, Lydia pushed open the grate and entered The Ratway.

**.**

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**Hi, people! Miss me? Nothing much new in my life. Still job searching. One year older, no wiser, that sort of thing. I did write two chapters in a day, though, which was fun. My boyfriend and I also did a round of spring cleaning, resulting in my chins not being allowed out for about a week and a half, so their scampering joy when they were let out in a newly rearranged living room was something to behold. Literal bouncing off the walls.**

**For those of you who are interested, I had a wonderful birthday! My boyfriend took me out to dinner at this steak place where they bring you cuts of raw steak and you cook it yourself, bite by bite, on a slab of volcanic stone. It was delicious. Then they brought out this mountain of basically a vanilla ice cream waffle cone upended on an enormous brownie and all covered with marshmallow and whipped cream and caramel then SET IT ON FIRE! It was _awesome!_**

**Thanks to all who read and reviewed!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: How the Staff itself will affect her or the quest?**

**Wynni: Jughead is friskily kicking up his heals in Aetherius, don't worry. The Psjics did indeed pop in when all this started, but if you think Ysmir is skiddish of strange Altmer now you should have seen her then! The Psjics have a surprise awaiting them, that's for sure! **

**.**

**Next week: Lydia gets in a bar fight and Blaise gets his sister (and himself) into trouble.**


	59. Chapter 59: Locks

The thug just outside the entrance to the Ragged Flagon looked up as she entered, but after everything she had just walked through, Lydia wasn't feeling particularly generous. "Don't try it," she growled, pointing her sword right at his nose and glaring at him like he personally offended her—which, to be frank, he did. Honestly, why anyone would let the kind of person who ended up in the Ratway squat at their front door was beyond her, especially one with a small Shrine to Namira on show for all to see. She could see how it might discourage people from coming in, but wasn't this supposed to be a place of business? Shady business, but business nonetheless.

The man grunted, glaring at her as she crossed the room, never turning her back to him and keeping the sword raised just in case he got any ideas. Feeling her way down the steps, she opened the door with one hand and slipped into the Flagon, swiftly sheathing her sword so no one got the wrong idea. Too late apparently. Before Lydia was able to process more than that the place looked a lot cleaner and busier than her Thane had described, with what appeared to be several vendors in alcoves around the perimeter of a dark stone room centered on a pool (Lydia didn't even want to know what the original architect's plan had been here), a blonde Imperial with an impressive set of side burns and rather nice Elvish ax strode across the plank bridge and over to her. Everyone seemed to be watching out of the corner of their eye without actually stopping what they were doing, and Lydia quietly started reminding herself of all the ways her Thane had demonstrated that a rogue type could get behind someone like her.

Raising her hands to her shoulders to show she wasn't hostile, Lydia locked eyes with the man. He stopped a few paces from her, one hand on his hip as the other caressed the hilt of his ax, preparing to draw it if needed. "Vekel doesn't like strangers snooping around the Flagon," he growled. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a man named Brynjolf," she told him, still with her hands raised.

The Imperial grunted, "I just bet you are. Try again."

She nearly groaned, but settled for gritting her teeth and glaring at him, "Look, I don't mean any trouble, I just need to talk to him."

His eyes narrowed, hand going from idly toying with the ax to gripping the handle, "Do you think I'm an idiot? Plenty of mercenary types think they can collect on the Guildmaster, but they're wrong. You won't get through me!"

Lydia sighed heavily as he unsheathed his ax, raising her shield and fending off his blows, not bothering to reach for her own weapon, simply turning her body until his back was to the rest of the Flagon. When he was only a few feet from the pool, she lashed out with her shield, surprising him by switching so abruptly to the offensive, hooking her foot around his ankle and yanking it out from under him as she hit him a second time, sending him sprawling into the pool.

He emerged sputtering and fingering the bridge of his nose, glaring at her as she shook her head in resignation, then frowned when he smirked. Something cold and sharp pressed lightly just below her ear and she stiffened, realizing that one of the thieves must has snuck up behind her as they fought. Something pricked at her side as she instinctively flinched away, a glance downward proving it to be an incredibly sharp sword made of rare blue glass. Lacy patterns of frost formed on her armor around the tip—rather pretty if one could ignore that another hair's breadth to the right and her blood would be forming little ice crystals, too.

"Well now, lass, while I can't say it's not a pleasure to have an attractive woman seeking me out, it wasn't very nice of you to embarrass Dirge like that," a male voice ghosted along her neck, heavy Riften drawl not disguised in the least.

"Brynjolf, I presume?" she stated calmly, keeping her breathing even and her muscles relaxed, refusing to let this man think he had truly gotten the better of her.

"That's me," he replied, smirk audible. "Now who might you be, hm?"

"My name is Lydia," she replied, still not moving, "Housecarl to Ysmir Dragonborn."

"Ysmir?" he repeated, surprised. The weapons vanished, and Lydia realized she hadn't been as relaxed as she'd tried to be as she nearly sagged with relief. Professional pride kicked in, and she straightened, turning to face the man that could have killed her, had he chosen to. Nord like her, with auburn red hair, and wearing dark leather armor with an absurd number of pockets and pouches. To her surprise, he looked rather annoyed, "I know the Guild's capable, but I only just got her letter! Listen, I'll send word if any of her stuff shows up, and I promise to keep Delvin from pawing through it, but I can only work so fast!" Her blank look made him pause, frowning. "You're not here about that, are you? You look like you weren't even aware her house got sacked."

"What?" she cried, eyes wide in shock. "Who? When?"

Brynjolf sighed, sheathing his weapons. "We don't know—and no, it wasn't one of ours or anyone associated with us. At least, not anyone who's contacted us yet to let us know they did it. Come on in, lass, I'll tell you what I know. Normally I charge for this kind of thing, but I owe Ysmir."

Deciding she did not want to inquire too closely about her Thane's connection with the Thieves' Guild—let alone why their Guildmaster, of all people, would feel he owed her—Lydia followed him into the Flagon, thieves melting into the shadows on some unspoken signal as they approached. He indicated for her to sit at one of the few tables placed here and there, seemingly haphazardly, but Lydia noted that she could see the door perfectly from where she sat, and there was nothing in a straight line between any seat and the back door. The Guildmaster spoke a few words with the man behind the bar, took two bottles of mead off him and returned to sit across from her, setting one next to her. It was unopened, the cork still tightly sealed with wax, appearing untampered with. Having just taken a Cure Poison potion going through the Ratway, just in case any of those bear traps had been coated with something, Lydia felt safe enough drinking it.

"Now, I don't know much," he said, toying with his own bottle after taking a gulp, "but here's what I know from our mutual friend's letter. Someone broke into her house, sacked the place, and stole most of her stuff. They weren't quiet about it, went through the woods deliberately scaring off wildlife and generally making nuisances of themselves to the local hunters. A particular Shrine was taken, along with three very rare and valuable scrolls—scrolls so valuable they're worthless to the common thief."

"Divines preserve us," she breathed, realizing instantly what he was alluding to. "Does she know who did it?"

"She had some suspects, but nothing concrete. Didn't say who, though. Didn't want to bias me, she said," he scoffed. "Anyway, that's what I know, as promised. Now I want you to tell me three things, the second of which is why you didn't know any of this. The third is why you came, but the first…What is the name of the man Ysmir loved enough to marry?"

Lydia blinked in surprise. A test, she realized, seeing the false relaxation in the man. He'd promised to tell her what she wanted, but he wasn't going to let her walk out of here without proving she was who she said she was. The housecarl licked her lips, wondering just how much Ysmir had told the man. "She's a widow," Lydia finally stated, "and never wanted to marry again. She considered it once, but never married him."

Brynjolf nodded, gaze still hard on her, "And his name?"

"I don't know her dead husband's name," Lydia confessed, "but she might have eventually said yes to Ralof of Riverwood."

He looked down, nodding again to himself. "Alright, lass, you passed. Now tell me why you needed me to tell you any of this."

"I can only tell you some of this because it's obvious you're closer to her than she let on," Lydia began, pausing when he shook his head.

"Not as close as you might think, lass, but we saw each other through a rough patch, and her buying that Left Eye off us helped us back on our feet quicker than we could have ever hoped. Speaking of which, we have some armorsmiths looking to buy some dragon bones, if she has some lying around."

"I'll pass that on," she promised, then took a deep breath. "The Jarl of Falkreath proposed to her," she began, but had to stop again as Brynjolf burst out laughing.

"Him? That lazy brat with his thumbs in so many different pies he can't keep them straight, not to mention the one up his ass rather than running his own hold? And he actually thought she'd say yes just because he's a jarl?"

"I'm not sure he really wanted her to say yes," Lydia cut in. "His alternative deal was for one of Ysmir's daughters."

Brynjolf stopped laughing at that, looking vaguely haunted, "Aye. There's been some muttering to that effect. Ysmir's girls aren't very old, are they? Not even at the age of consent yet. A few suspected it's why Dengeir took him out of the succession, before the Imperials ousted him and put Siddgeir on the seat anyway. No proof, mind you. Never any of that. So I take it Ysmir solved the problem by removing her children from his grasp? Good. Even if the mutterings were wrong, man like that wouldn't hesitate to sell one of them to a bandit leader for a bigger cut of gold. Still, he's not much of a problem anymore, to anybody but Arkay's man down in Falkreath, anyway."

Her breath caught in her throat, lips parting slightly as she stared at him. "He's dead?" she asked, the horrible thought that perhaps Ysmir had decided to take matters into her own hands making her stomach clench.

"Tried to make a deal with a Daedric Prince, is what they're currently trying to keep quiet about," Brynjolf said, looking entirely too pleased about this for Lydia's comfort. "Hermaeus Mora from the sounds of it. Turned the man's blood to ink and melted his bones. One man said it looked like Siddgeir had tried to rip his torso open and turn himself inside out. Entire floor covered with parchment pages with some kind of dire warning written on it in what some think is the Jarl's missing blood. If you want to see one, our Sapphire has it hanging above her bed. Seems Ysmir's not the only one with a reason to rejoice his death. Girl swiped two dozen copies before she came back here, and she's been selling them for nearly two hundred septims apiece. She'll probably charge you admittance just to see it."

"And you?" Lydia asked tiredly, "I can hardly think you just gave me this information for free."

He shrugged, "Everyone will be talking about it in a few days, and you already promised to pass on the dragon bones bit. Now, I can only assume you're hiding out here with a few of the children? How many has she got now, anyway? From the sounds of it she rivals Honorhall."

That actually got a smile out of her, "I can't tell you that, but I can tell you why I'm in Riften at the moment. I need to send a message to my Thane, but the courier is currently locked up as an Imperial sympathizer for flirting with Jarl Laila's wayward son."

Brynjolf's expression took on a professionally sympathetic cast. "That's a shame. For a boy she supposedly disowned, our Jarl is very concerned with Saerlund's conduct. It's led to some rather…hasty decisions on her part."

"I want him out," Lydia said, cutting through what might have turned into a quarter-hour's worth of beating around the bush. They were in the Ragged Flagon, for Tsun's sake, who was going to tattle?

The Master of the Thieves Guild gave a little laugh, though Lydia couldn't quite tell if he was amused or disgusted. "Warrior types. Never ones to take things delicately."

"I have my Thane's children to return to," she reminded him. "And I'm pretty sure one of them was a scamp in his last life."

"One of those, hmm?" Brynjolf said, and now he definitely was amused. "Alright, Lydia Housecarl, let's talk business."

.

* * *

.

"I'm not sure about this," Lucia declared for the seventeenth time, peering into the pitch oval of the air shaft descending into the ruins. She had watched him tie the rope to a nearby rock and test it while wringing her hands, and now that he'd wrapped it around himself like Uncle Inigo had shown him was best for climbing down steep surfaces, they were all ready to go.

Blaise rolled his eyes, having had enough of her negativity by this point. "Then leave," he said curtly, and jumped backwards into the hole.

Lucia let out a little shriek and rushed over, relaxing when she saw him propelling down the side with no difficulty. He had a lantern tied to the end of the rope which had gone down first, and he focused on that. This hole was a lot deeper than he had originally thought, but he wasn't about to climb out now that he was in it. Minutes went by as he lowered himself, Lucia's plaintive little whimpers whenever he slipped or went down too fast for her liking driving him slightly up the wall (or further down the wall, as the case may be), but at last he reached the bottom, sighing with relief he would never admit to and looking around curiously.

Sorine's worktable was obvious. It was covered with papers and reference books, miscellaneous drawings and bits of scrap metal. The rest of the room was shrouded in gloom just a few shades too dark to tell what was there, barely lit by gas lamps mounted high on the walls. A walk around proved it to be some sort of storeroom, or something similar. There were a lot of shelves and no beds, anyway. A part portioned off by bars seemed to hold a few chests and other interesting pieces, and a matching grated off area held nothing but a pole that reached from floor to ceiling, piercing a strangle paddle that resembled nothing so much as a metal pinwheel. Briefly, he wondered what the point of it was, since there was no wind or water to turn it. Other than that and a couple of broken spear guardians, there was disappointingly little to look at.

"Blaise!"

Rolling his eyes, he went to check on his sister, who had made it halfway down the rope before apparently giving up. "Up or down?" he asked her tiredly. "There isn't exactly anything soft for you to land on if you fall."

She whimpered, clinging to the rope with her eyes screwed shut. Blaise sighed again and resigned himself to spending the next half an hour talking her down. "Come on, scaredy cat. A few more feet and you can fall without hurting yourself."

Lucia shook her head frantically and Blaise gave up, dragging a small shelf and a chair over, huffing with the effort of moving the solid metal pieces and wondering how elves had moved them all the time, supposedly without thinking about it. Perhaps they hadn't—after all, most of their furniture was stone, perhaps they just got used to not being able to move things. Climbing first onto the chair, then the shelf, he eased his supposedly older sister down the rope and onto the shelf, then led her down to the chair and the floor, all without her opening her eyes for more than a second or two.

"You never had this problem with the towers," he complained, watching her pant as she sat on the chair, sweating and trembling.

"There're railings on the towers," she said, clinging to the chair, "I never looked straight down and there was no floor, only dark and more dark and I _hate_ the dark!"

"I know," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "But there's those lamps Sorine said you could make brighter. Do that and it won't be nearly so dark."

Looking up, she eyed them doubtfully. "She said she'd show me how when she brought me down here. I don't know how to."

He rolled his eyes. "Just try anyway." This was just like Lucia—she'd never done a thing so she assumed she couldn't, even though when she tried she usually did it better than most of her siblings. Blaise would never understand why she thought she was good for nothing, even with Ysmir telling her all the time how talented she was, to be able to do so many things. Watching her take the lantern over to examine the lights, it occurred to him that her ability to do pretty much anything passably well just might be the problem. If she was never really bad at anything, but at the same time never great at anything, what would she consider herself good at? He knew she got flustered if she had to work at anything to get the hang of it; what if she was just so used to things coming naturally to her that she considered having to work at it being bad at it?

If that was the case, Blaise really wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. He'd kill to be able to just pick something up and be good at it. Ysmir said it was a trait that sometimes showed up with people born under the Lover's Stone, and that they tended to be "Jacks of all trades," whatever that meant. So far, he hadn't gotten any use out of his own birth stone. He wondered if he could switch.

His musings were interrupted by Lucia's cry of triumph as the gas lights rose to life, blazing in the wall like magelights.

"Blaise!" she cried, turning excitedly to look at him, "I did it!" she giggled.

Her brother couldn't help but smile. "You did. I told you that you could. Now, who was right?"

She rolled her eyes at him but the smile never faltered. "You were right," she said, looking around the room with interest. Now that he could see further than his lantern illuminated, Blaise saw that the shelves were mostly filled with large statues made of that same metal everything else was, with a couple of pretty blue pots he wouldn't mind keeping. Some ingots of various metals, more scrap metal…a chest!

Getting Lucia to help, he scooted the small shelf over to the really big shelf that was as high as an adult and tipped it against the side, using it as a ladder to reach the chest and pulling out the lockpicks he'd borrowed from their mother a few years ago. Carefully sliding them into the lock, he put his ear beside it, listening carefully to the various ticks as he poked around. Deciding a spot sounded right, he began to turn.

The pick broke.

Cursing (then telling Lucia not to be such a baby about it), he inserted a second pick, angling his hands just a bit…there! The tumblers gave and the strange little dome shaped lid opened, and Blaise looked in to see three more lockpicks and the crumbled remains of what might have been anything, locked in there for so long. Seizing the picks for himself, his hand brushed something under the dirt. Lifting it up, he smirked down at his sister, dangling the little pendant from its chain. "Hey Lucia, look what I found."

Her eyes went round, looking at the strange necklace—little more than a light blue rock carved in a geometric knot on a dwarven metal chain, but seeming to shine with its own inner light. "Pretty, huh? Maybe I should give it to Aventus; he likes girls' jewelry."

She pouted at him and he laughed, tossing it to her. Catching it, she cooed excitedly over it as he climbed down, heading to the first of the partitioned off areas. It didn't look like Sorine had been in there yet, and the loss of his three new picks proved why. Scowling at the lock, Blaise was about to try again when Lucia piped up. "Blaise, I think this thing might be Aetherium. You know, like from _The Aetherium Wars?"_

"Uh-huh," he replied absently, having never read it. "Lu, could you shush for a minute? I don't have that many lockpicks left, and this is kinda hard."

"Sorry," she whispered, going over to peek at Sorine's notes.

Blaise's pick began to shake and he hastily stopped putting pressure on it, moving it clockwise by tiny increments before trying again.

"Hey, Blaise, I think this thing over here is a Kinetic Resonator!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"Don't make up words to sound smart, Lu," he replied, moving the pick yet again as it started to bend.

"I didn't make that up!" she sounded so insulted he grinned. "Can you pick this one first?"

"No, Lu."

"There's a door at the back of this one. I think the Resonator probably opens the door."

"That's nice, Lu."

"Oh hey! It's not even locked; the handle is just missing!"

"Great. Wish mine was just missing its handle. Shut up, will you?"

"Found it!"

"Wonderful."

For a while his sister was blessedly silent as she tried to get her own door open, leaving Blaise in peace to open his. So close now…he turned the picks until they were nearly touching, going as slowly as he could in case one broke at the last second. Just a little more and…a great clang made him jump, snapping the pick off in the lock. Crying out in dismay, he turned to see Lucia gazing at him sheepishly, still looking proud despite that, the pinwheel near the ceiling and a lever in her hands. "They need to be hit to activate?" she offered by way of apology.

He sagged, looking forlornly at his lock. The pick had broken off nearly flush with the casing, meaning he would need tools to get it out. Annoyed, he turned back to upbraid his sister just in time to see the pale, sickly looking person sneaking through the door she had just unlocked. "Lucia!" he cried, jumping to his feet.

An unholy snarl filled the air as the thing's sword came down, the pommel hitting the back of the girl's head before she could even turn around. Her eyes went wide, then shut as she fell forward, landing face-down on the floor. For a moment Blaise could only stare at it, at the wrinkled and pocked skin where eyes should be as it raised its face, nose like a bat's twitching as it tested the air. Pointing its head right at him, it lifted the sword again and licked blood from the grip.

Blaise lost it. "Get away from my sister!" he shouted, grabbing a nearby strut and rushing the thing.

A ball of green light shot over the creature's shoulder and hit him dead center, stopping him in his tracks as his legs and arms refused to move. He couldn't do anything as he crashed to the floor, could barely breathe and blink as he watched a second creature shuffle out, hair twisted up into two matted horns, clutching a staff that looked like it was made out of giant bug legs. Terrified, guilty, and unable to move, Blaise watched as the first creature grabbed Lucia by the hair, dragging her back through the door. The one near him tested the air with its upturned nose, poking him with the end of her staff before growling, reaching down and grasping his ankle, and then turning to drag him further into the ruins after his sister.

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**Please don't hate me.**

**The next chapter is super long and might be broken into two, but I hate doing that because it would break the action in half.**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: She'll be amazed at the artifact, of course, and pleased with it's usefulness, but by now she's had so many weird things pass through her hands that it won't phase her very much.**

**Roger509: Thank you. I hope I found them all. :D**

**Lazy: I had to look it up. ^^; I do try my best to be accurate, though.**

**Wynni: I think it's his name. I also have him down as being a bit talkative because my Blaise is seriously glitched so that he follows my character around the house and pulls them into dialogue when I'm trying to...well, anything. So I have to exit out of the dialogue menu only to be pulled right back in with a cheerful little "Hi, Ma!" The chins are more like "We're free! We're freeeee! Now we're going to hide under the fish tank and sleep on the carpet!"**

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**Next chapter: A character says goodbye.**


	60. Chapter 60: The Ritual

Something viscous and slightly chalky tasting was being poured down her throat. Lucia gagged, coughed, and struggled to sit up, pushing whatever it was away. Her head hurt so much she thought it might have come open, but the pain was subsiding a bit.

"Lu," Blaise breathed, relieved. "You're alright!"

She groaned in answer, snatching the bottle of health potion from his hands and downing the rest of it before even attempting to piece together the hundred little fragments of memory that bobbed around in her mind. Her first attempt at speaking was an utter failure, so she cleared her throat and tried again, only to have her brother hush her urgently. "Where are we?" she asked, as softly as possible. The wall behind him reminded her of their mother's house in Markarth, but the space they were in almost looked as if someone had tried to dig their way out of it, the entrance shattered stone tumbling into their little earthen haven.

Worryingly, Blaise didn't answer. Lucia glanced up at him in the dim blue light given off by several glowing mushrooms higher on the wall to see him sitting back against the smooth stone of the Dwemer wall, tear tracks down his filthy face and seeming utterly defeated. "I'm so sorry, Lu. You were right, and I…" he swallowed, "I think I may have gotten us killed."

The world seemed to drop out from under her, taking her stomach with it and leaving a gnawing, roiling pit in its wake. "What do you mean?" she finally got out, but he just shook his head, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his head on his knees. Placing her hand against the dirty wall for support, Lucia gingerly got to her feet, dizzy with the effort and biting back a gasp as the pain in her head bloomed again. When she was sure she could move she walked around the rim of the niche she had awoken in, taking a second to gag at the fetid aroma that seemed to get worse by the moment and stuck like a film in the back of her throat.

Her first impression was that it was awfully dark, reducing everything to vague shapes in various shades of blue-black. Then, as her eyes started to adjust, the shapes became forms; bars separating them from a further, darker space, and nearer…

Lucia turned and vomited against the wall, feeling the world around her spin and tilt in ways that she felt sure should send the pile of corpses sliding into her. Knees weak, she managed to stagger a bit further down from her mess before collapsing against a stone bench there, trembling as she took in the horror before her. The light above her made a slight puttering sound, but she didn't care to stand up and try to fix it when it would only make their fate more clear. Growing up in Skyrim, she had seen bodies before—there had never been a time where she was in dire peril of becoming another one, though.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, staring. Long enough for the shock to fade to numbness and for her eyes to adjust well enough to note that that one used to be a Khajiit, and that one probably a Dunmer, those two were some sort of human and they'd died holding hands.

"I took the potion off the High Elf wizard," Blaise said, making her jump. "Don't go too close to the bars, though. They liked to jump at you and hit the bars with things."

"They?" she echoed fearfully.

He nodded, "Falmer. I think."

Quiet reigned between them for a few moments. "How far down do you think we are?" she inquired, gazing up at the stone ceiling.

Blaise shrugged. "Far enough down not to have any flies," he noted. "It felt like they dragged us forever, but it probably wasn't more than twenty minutes. I hope."

"We went down in the ruins, didn't we?" she asked.

"You don't remember?" he asked, gazing back at her worriedly. She shook her head, completely unused to the guilty, sorrowful expression on her brother's face as he looked forward again, over the piled dead and out into the room beyond. "I talked you into it. Isran and the others had mostly gone, heading off to Morrowind. Lydia wasn't supposed to be back until tonight or tomorrow morning. I wanted as much time as possible so we could be back before they caught us."

"Did Sorine go with Isran?" Lucia asked, the entire day being a complete haze to her. Blaise shook his head, joining her against the wall but opting to slide down to the floor beside the bench, and she managed a smile. "Then we'll be fine. She'll come down here and see…whatever we left to be seen, and get some help to come get us."

"Unless she's searching all over the Fort for us instead," Blaise replied morosely, crossing his arms over his knees. "We've been down here for hours, Lu, and…" he gulped. "They don't need to hit us to stop us. The one that brought me got me with a spell and I couldn't move."

"You were awake when they brought us down here?" she asked, thinking hard. He nodded again, closing his eyes tightly. "Then you know the way back out."

Blaise's eyes popped back open, gleaming faintly as he stared back up at her, "Are you suggesting we get _ourselves_ out?"

"I'd rather do that than wait here for them to kill us," Lucia looked around, trying to find something to work with. "Remember what the Papas say? Victory or Sovngarde!"

"We're not Nords, Lu! Neither of us is going to Sovngarde!" he protested.

She put her hands on her hips to hide their trembling, her admonishing look masking a terror she dare not even admit to herself, or she would stop, just like he had. "Blaise Martin Lebeau Dragonssen, we are the children of the great and mighty Dragonborn, and we will not give up or so help me, I will…I will tell on you!"

He gave her an irate look far more in line with the way she thought of him than that awful, terrified blankness he'd been sporting since she woke up. "Oh, yeah? And how are you going to do that?"

"I will drag your naughty butt out of here if I have to," she threatened, beginning to feel heartened by her own bravo. Her eyes fell on something piled in the corner of the cell, away from the bodies, and a slow grin crept its way across her face. "Find some sort of weapon, if you can. When they come for us, we'll surprise them."

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* * *

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His sister was crazy. Completely and utterly mad, but Blaise had gotten her into this, he was determined to help her at least _try_ to get out. They'd die, of course, but it was at least faster than what they'd done to that barely-alive Dunmer they'd been carving up when they'd dragged the children past the entrance. Blaise would much rather be cut down trying to escape than eaten alive.

He'd rather be rescued than either, but he wasn't holding out any hope for that.

"Remember what Momma told us?" Lucia was asking, standing on his shoulders as he stood on the bench so that she could fiddle with the light.

"Never panic," he supplied. "Keep your head and you can think your way out of anything. Panic just clouds your head and doesn't allow you to do anything else." Both the Papas and Ysmir had been adamant about that. Panic, Farkas had said, makes it awfully easy to kill you, because it's much easier to hit someone in the back than get through the end with a weapon. If retreating is the only option, step backwards or have someone cover your tail. Blaise had laughed when he said that, thinking Farkas was being literal, since the Papas and Auntie Aela being werewolves was the worst kept secret in the house. Briefly, he wished he was a werewolf. That would at least let Lucia get out as he distracted them.

"Right," she confirmed, twisting a bit, but not enough to topple them both over a second time. "I think I might have…hurray!"

"Keep the happiness down, I think it makes them mad," he told her, then piped down as the light flared to life, then dimmed as his sister yelped. Around the cell and the room beyond, other lights gradually brightened, banishing a good bit of the gloom.

Lucia hopped off his shoulders, examining the newly revealed foe before nodding. "Doable," she said decisively, and if her eyes were wide and she was shaking hard enough to make the ash colored strands of her hair shiver, he wasn't going to mention it.

The boy looked out at their captors. A male and female, he thought, they had both crouched around their strange, black hut and stayed there, almost as if they were meditating or something. That single hut was all that would fit in here, but he knew that beyond the gap in the wall, where his hopeful sister couldn't see, was another room filled with them. On either side of that doorway was a pair of stone tables, their once white stone now brown and crusted. He'd been dragged right passed those tables on the way in, and had locked eyes with the man tied down to one, though he wasn't sure the Dunmer had been able to see him. He had been panting, but his eyes had been dull. There had been pans next to him, and as they'd hauled him by the Falmer standing over the man had put something red and dripping into one of them.

Even though the Falmer couldn't see, their butchering area was quite well-lit. He wouldn't be at all surprised to learn it was on purpose.

The bodies inside the cage with them showed no signs of that kind of treatment. Blaise guessed that if they died in here the Falmer didn't bother with them. He couldn't bring himself to tell Lucia that they wanted them alive when they ate them. This plan of hers was best, then. The Falmer would kill them both and they'd never have to go through that.

A part of him was wailing, crying hopelessly that it wasn't fair. He was too young to die; they both were! Blaise was vaguely surprised it even existed after seeing his home in High Rock taken over before his parents ran off and joined the Legion when he was five, convinced that no one would look for people of their skill and breeding in such a lowly occupation. Which was probably true; they hadn't lasted six months. Some superior of theirs had found him and told him the news, obviously expecting the little troublemaking son of his dead underlings to burst into tears, which he would also have to deal with. That hadn't happened until the man announced they had found his father's signet ring and were sending him back to his relatives. Blaise had left Castle Dour that night, hiding out in the stables—the first place he could think of where he could be of some use.

Watching Lucia piece together bits of a big dwarven machine someone had defeated, he pulled out his father's ring, which had remained, through everything, hanging from a chain around his neck. Ysmir had watched him holding it, that first week in Solitude after Alesan had found him and wanted to play, telling him that he was an orphan too, but he had been found by this great lady who said she'd take him to the Orphanage, but he thought she liked him and might keep him. Ysmir knew what it was, he was sure. Sometimes, he thought she knew everything. Taking him aside after the dinner she had bought that first night at the Winking Skeever, she'd told him gently that common children did not hold their mugs like teacups, and didn't carefully pat their lips three times with their napkin when they had finished eating. Watch Alesan, she'd told him, and do what he does.

He still messed up from time to time, he knew that, but he couldn't let himself forget. No skill learned was ever wasted, she'd also said, so he'd done his best to remember. Also, it had been drilled into him from the time he could hold a fork, so it was actually harder to forget than one might think.

Of course, none of this helped him a bit now.

Resigning himself, Blaise went and searched the bodies a second time, looking for some kind of weapon. He found another lockpick, which was sort of ironic, really, but it seemed the Falmer hadn't left their captives with so much as a dagger. Not really expecting anything, he searched the Khajiit and found three empty purple bottles, a moonsugar bowl, and a fork. Well, better than a lockpick, he supposed, trying the bowl on his head to see if it would work as a helm, but it was just a bit too small.

Something clanked and hissed behind him, and he turned to see Lucia standing back from her work, looking proudly up at a semi-functioning sphere guardian. It was listing to one side and promptly fell over, but it was working, and it wasn't attacking them. His sister made a frustrated noise, running her hand through her hair just like their mother did and grimacing when she got tangled in the part matted by blood. "It's different than the one in Mother's collection!" she complained. "I think this one actually uses part of the sphere as a shield, and the soul gem is not a very big one, so I don't think it'll last too long once it starts having to fight."

"Neither will we," he muttered, fingers ghosting over the raised part of the ring face. Maybe, had he been unconscious like her when they were brought down, he would have joined her, but he hadn't. He'd seen exactly what they were up against, and there was no way two unarmed children were getting out of there. It was hopeless, but he wasn't going to tell her that. He wanted her to keep on hoping right up to the end. Shaking himself down, he went to search the remaining corpses.

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* * *

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_"Where are they?"_ Lydia thundered to the hapless Nord man recruited long after she'd left, thus she wasn't sure of his name. Not that she cared at the moment, though she might need it to alert his next of kin if he didn't answer her question.

The man's eyes darted back and forth, avoiding looking at her directly. "We can't find them," he finally admitted, loath to tell the pretty but surprisingly intimidating woman anything that would make her even angrier, but not exactly having a choice. "We've searched all over the Fort and in the valley. I mean, they haven't been missing for very long. They're probably out playing somewhere—"

"Lydia!" Beleval shouted, racing up to the pair of them. "I found your wolf! He's sitting at the top of that Dwemer shaft and howling."

For a moment, Lydia felt as if her heart had stopped, knew her face drained of color as every horrible moment she had ever spent in a Dwemer ruin played across her mind. "Get Sorine!" she ordered breathlessly. "Please. Anyone with any experience in ruins. Hopefully we won't need them."

The Bosmer nodded, "Will do. We can be ready in fifteen minutes."

Lydia couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't be soon enough. "Faster, if possible. I'm going ahead," she told her. "If you see me dragging them back here by the scruffs of their necks, I'll have saved everyone a walk."

Beleval chuckled, jogging into the Fort to fetch Sorine and whoever else was coming, but Lydia wasn't about to assume the children were fine in the one clear room they had found. This was Lucia and Blaise they were talking about, and while Lucia wouldn't have gone down by herself, once there she was more than capable of opening that door Sorine had found. The Dawnguard's Dwemer expert had been content to leave it until she was done studying the room, but Blaise saw locked doors as a personal challenge.

Heart in her throat, Lydia ran toward the ruin.

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* * *

.

This was it. The big Falmer with the eyeless helm that Blaise had seen butchering a living person on the way in had come for them, running his knife along the bars first, slowly, as if knowing exactly what it was doing to them. His other hand glowed with the same green magic that had felled Blaise in the outer room. The boy set himself, a piece of bent scrap metal tied to his arm with a belt he had found as an improvised shield, fork in his other hand. Lucia lifted the decorative strut she had (she was pretty sure it was supposed to go on her guardian somewhere) in both hands, moonsugar bowl tied over her injured head with a sash. Using the guardian's sword-hand, Blaise had slashed open the leg part of a pair of leather boots someone had been wearing, using the rest of the belt to make an improvised chest piece for her. It was the best he could do. With that sphere guardian distracting them, maybe they could run far enough to…Blaise smiled grimly to himself. After everything, it was hard to just give up hope, though before she'd gotten the automaton working he'd thought he had.

Well, as Papa Farkas would say, at least they were going to give the bastards a bad day.

Lucia gave the sphere guardian a light push just as the Falmer unlocked the door, and it shot forth like it wanted out as much as they did, knocking the Falmer to the floor and butchering one before it could do more than turn, engaging the third one when it took exception. The girl raced out, hitting the thing in the head as hard as she could. Her strike bounced off the helmet and set her off-balance. With an annoyed yowl, the creature batted her away, the strike sending Lucia careening into the cage door, winded but apparently unhurt.

"Leave her alone!" Blaise screamed, abandoning all reason and just kicking the thing while it was down. He got a lucky shot to the groin, but it only seemed to enrage it further. The green light in its hand turned blue with frost, and the boy staggered back as an Ice Spike grazed along his side, tearing a long gash that froze instantly as the projectile shattered against the wall behind him.

"Blaise!" Lucia shrieked, scrambling to get to her feet and help him, even though she would only get hurt. Frantic as the beast turned toward the sound of her voice, hand raised to cast, Blaise gripped his fork in both hands and stabbed down with all his might. The Falmer screeched as the sturdy iron utensil embedded itself into its thigh, and Blaise stomped on his other hand, forcing the thing to release its knife.

Lucia cheered as he claimed the weapon for himself, the Falmer climbing to its feet and yanking the fork from his leg as it raised a hand arching with lightning—that promptly went out. Pausing, the creature shook its hand, flexing emaciated fingers as if puzzled by them. It barely reacted when Lucia's guardian rolled up behind it and stabbed it through the abdomen.

Blaise closed his eyes, wishing he couldn't hear Lucia's cheers as he caught his breath. "We're not out yet, Lu," he managed.

She paused, "What do you mean?"

He didn't get a chance to answer as lightning arched through the air between them, catching the sphere guardian dead center. It turned, for the most part unaffected, and rushed the caster, but Lucia went silent, eyes wide and horrified as she finally realized what he had been hiding. Behind those Falmer were more, and even more behind them. Blindly, she reached out and grabbed his arm, tears coursing down her cheeks as the strut fell from her hands. "I wish Momma was here," she whispered.

Feeling tears coursing down his own cheeks, he managed, "Sorry, Lu," as he shook her off and stepped between her and the oncoming hoard, stance a bit shaky but determined to defend her as long as he could.

The knife was knocked from his hand with the first strike. He raised his shield to block the second, but was staggered, sending him to his knees. Looking up at the Falmer poised above him, sword raised, Lucia's screaming in the background, Blaise realized that he really, really didn't want to die yet. If only there was something in this charnel house he could _use!_

The world flashed white, seeming to form a bubble around him for a moment before it shattered, the scattered bits surrounding the corpses in ribbons of blue light as they rose in the air, hovering for a moment before being placed back on their feet.

The Falmer milled uncertainly for a moment, then the children's original opponent rushed into their line, still wielding the fork and sporting a faint blue glow. Lucia gasped as the former prisoners—even the ones who were little more than bones and tattered clothes—rushed out, moaning as they fell upon the Falmer.

"Blaise, what did you do?" Lucia asked, helping him to his feet.

"I have no idea," he replied, stunned. The Falmer, numerous as they were, apparently were outnumbered by the dead, for their line quickly turned into a rout, and as one they made for the opposite door.

They were greeted by a Storm Atronach.

The Falmer didn't hesitate, scrambling to escape like cornered skeevers, but between the raised corpses and the Atronach, they died rapidly. Watching this, Blaise and Lucia clung onto each other, barely able to process what was happening.

Then a familiar head poked around the doorframe, gaudy mage robes looking even brighter in the dank colors of the ruins. "Is this one it?"

"Romulus," Lucia sobbed.

The mage caught sight of them, expression sobering as he made his way over, wordlessly dropping to his knees in front of them and pulling them into a hug. A Breton in black robes followed, leaning against the doorframe and looking bored with the whole affair. "What ish it with you and kids, Rommy?" he complained. "Old Sheo, he liked kids as well as the next mortal, but you…what ish it? Is it the button noses?"

"Shut up, Sam," was all Romulus said, holding them tight and they were safe, Blaise realized, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "It's all right," the mage whispered to them, and he realized Lucia was already crying. Not the normal loud bawls that he was accustomed to, but quiet, whimpering sobs that broke his heart a little and they never should have been down here, this was all his fault. He must have been saying that aloud, because Romulus shook his head. "No. It's just the way you are. You could no more help it than I would have been able to."

Sam interrupted this with a low whistle. "Well, hello. What brings a nice_—hic!—_girl like you to a hole like dis?"

"Lydia!" Lucia cried, wiggling out of Romulus's grasp to embrace the housecarl, who swept her up for a tight hug before setting her down, looking her over worriedly.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" she demanded.

"A Falmer hit her on the head," Blaise supplied, standing awkwardly by Romulus, not feeling like he deserved to be comforted. The Imperial frowned down at him as he thought this and put an arm around him, then paused when he felt the rent in his clothing, golden light blooming from his palm to mend the gash in his skin beneath it. It had numbed enough that Blaise had been able to ignore it for a bit, but he bit his lip to keep tears back as it was healed. Lydia, meanwhile, was carefully unwinding the sash from under Lucia's chin, pulling the bowl off her head and running her fingers over it gingerly.

"That's not the kind of wound you should treat with a potion," Romulus said, finishing with Blaise and shifting next to them, Healing spell flaring once more.

The housecarl watched anxiously until a nearby moan made her glance up, finally noticing something besides the children. "You didn't tell me you were a necromancer," she said uncertainly, watching the reanimated corpses shuffle about the room.

Blaise shifted awkwardly. "Actually, those are mine. I don't know how I did it, but I really didn't want to die, and…am I a necromancer now?" he asked apprehensively.

Sam snorted, "You'd have to study for dat," he said dismissively. "It'sh pro'lly yer Sign."

Lydia smiled (somewhat uncertainly, but still a smile) and kissed his forehead. "It's because you were born under the Ritual Stone, Blaise. You don't ever have to do it again if you don't want." From the tone of her voice, Blaise could tell she devoutly hoped he'd never want to again.

"A weapon is a weapon, Peaches," Romulus interjected. "Once something like this is activated, it generally doesn't go away. If you know a conjurer or two, it would probably be a good idea to give him a few lessons so that next time this happens it's on purpose. Don't panic when she faints."

"What?" Lydia asked in alarm just before Lucia's eyes slid shut and she fell over into the housecarl's arms.

"Head injuries are tricky," he informed her with a shrug. "Sometimes the patient needs to be put to sleep for a bit."

"He'sh making sure she doesn't go bonkers," Sam, apparently having the attention span of a grapefruit, had started wondering the room. "Kinda ironic, really." He paused, reached down, and yanked something out of a Falmer. "Ishin't dis yours?"

Romulus's face lit up. "Forky! That's where you got off to!"

Lydia looked from one to the other like they were mad as the mage hopped up and started cooing over a rusted eating utensil that still had bits of Falmer on it like it was a beloved pet, but everyone knew mages had their eccentricities.

"Can we go now?" Blaise asked wearily.

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* * *

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Half the remaining Dawnguard met them coming back through the ruin, confused but overjoyed to see Romulus and his friend Sam, who promised he had enough mead on him for everyone. The mage explained that they had entered the ruin from another entrance just over one of the smaller passes and happened upon Blaise and Lucia trying to fight their way out of a Falmer nest. They were horrified to hear of what the children had been through, and there were some furtive glances at the small army of corpses following them, but everyone seemed to assume the man in the black robes had done it, and no one in the little party felt keen to explain otherwise.

Blaise and Lucia were bundled into bed after a nice, hot bath in a pair of half-barrels created for just the occasion, then the adults all settled in to find out just what kind of mead was better than Black Briars'. Sam boasted that he could drink anyone under the table, a bet that had been eagerly seized upon by just about every Nord there, and quite a few who weren't.

Lydia didn't join in, staying by the children's sides as they slept. She stepped out briefly to get some water, waving to her already fairly inebriated fellows before returning, halting uncertainly at the door. Romulus was there, quietly stroking Blaise's hair as the boy appeared to be having a nightmare, but at the touch he calmed, falling back into more restful sleep. "You really shouldn't lurk in doorways, Peaches," he said without looking up. "It's kind of creepy."

"And you always knowing where I am is not?" Lydia replied pointedly.

He pointed at the wall where a shaft of light made a cockeyed rectangle, "Shadow made it obvious." Rising, he patted the fork clutched tightly in Blaise's hand before he turned, stopping right before he reached her. For once, he looked serious, and somewhat sad. "I…wanted to tell you something," he began, but she shook her head.

"Not here," she replied lowly, "I don't want to wake them." Turning, she headed to the door leading to the top of the tower, not stopping until the door was firmly shut behind them.

"I always liked the sky in Skyrim," Romulus mused, gazing at it. "There's so much light in the Imperial City that you can only see the brightest stars, but in Skyrim…" he shook his head, apparently beyond words. "Then you add that aurora to it and it's just not fair," he continued in a more normal, almost pouting tone.

Smiling slightly, she shook her head, only to find him looking at her again, pensively. "What?" she asked, abruptly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering gaze.

"I have to leave the Dawnguard," he said abruptly. "Probably for good. It's too much…too much is happening," he admitted, brushing his hair off his face in a way that reminded her strangely of her Thane. "There're family issues on both sides…By the time everything is sorted out, well, it will take decades, really."

"You came back to say goodbye," she realized, saddened. All the annoyance and confusion then realizing that she missed him, and now…

He shrugged. "I might see you all again—not like this, though. I just wanted to be myself again for a bit, but I have responsibilities that can't be ignored. Well, they can, but I practically just got back from that decade long vacation from them and Haskill can hardly be expected to—hmf!"

Lydia stepped back, watching him touch his lips in surprise. "Thank you," she told him earnestly, "You probably saved their lives today, and you made their stay here so much more fun than it would have been otherwise."

"They had it well in hand," Romulus admitted, then paused, glancing up at her with a rather endearing mix of suave and bashfulness. "So, uh, is that the only reason you kissed me?" At her amused, admonishing look, he sighed dramatically, then grinned, taking her hand and sweeping her a courtly bow, like he had the first time they met, only this time his eyebrows behaved. "Lydia, Housecarl of the Dragonborn, it was an honor spending these last couple of weeks with you. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses, but it was fun, and if I don't tell you that you're the most beautiful woman in Tamriel, it's only because I suspect you'll hit me."

Her smile wavered only a little when he kissed her hand. "Romulus," she began, and he glanced up at her, expression clearly stating that he wondered if she might hit him anyway. "I know Imperials are all about the courtly graces, but I'm a Nord. We're a little more straightforward than that," she explained, using the hand he held to yank him to her, other hand threading through his hair as her lips found his once more.

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* * *

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Sanguine's eyes flickered open as he lay across the table below, passed out vampire hunters all around him. Languidly toasting his mead in his mad brother's general direction, he muttered "Finally!" and finished his drink.

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**I hope everybody had a good week. I spent all yesterday running a steam cleaner, because our sixty gallon fish tank decided to bust and flood the living room. On the bright side, we managed to save most of the fish. On the other hand, most of the ones we lost were the babies that were too small to see easily. :( We have to get rid of them all now, because they are overcrowding our other tanks, but they're alive and seem to have recovered. **

**The chins are getting antsy that they can't run around the living room, though.**

**This chapter almost became two, for length reasons (This is easily twice the length of my usual chapters). It would have stopped right after Lydia ran off toward the ruins, but it would have been choppy, I thought. I didn't want to cut the action in half, and I really didn't want to have to tell you that you had to wait another week to see who says goodbye. **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Well, having them kidnapped by spiders would have given Farkas nightmares. Can't have that. **

**Wynni: I hope you were pleased with the goodbye! There was some setup for it, but I wasn't being overt about it. I wanted it to be a surprise. :D So who won? If you find your Pikachu, please send pictures.**

**Wicked Lullaby: Blaise will get into shenanigans his entire life. He's learned a valuable lesson, though; next time he goes down into a Dwemer ruin, he's bringing flame scrolls. And more lockpicks. XD**

**.**

**Next week: Ysmir reaches Labyrinthian, where news of Darva and Alesan's kidnapping finally catches up to her. Also, I throw a lore element out the window, because Shalidor's Maze was too easy. That's right, I redesigned an entire dungeon! **


	61. Chapter 61: The Mystery of Bromjunaar

Frost trolls. It had to be freaking frost trolls. Three of them, the first two taken out with a Fire Storm but the last just far enough away that she needed to finish it off with a fireball. Of course, the moment she did, another pair came barreling in, arms swinging before she could recover enough magic to cast Flames, let alone anything stronger. She'd pulled out a fire staff looted off a necromancer on the way here only to have one of them yank it right out of her hands and snap it like a twig. Ysmir made a mental note to start sparing more with the Companions—she was starting to rely far too heavily on magic and Shouting, to the point that she wasn't even carrying a sword. Still, _five_ frost trolls? Had she interrupted a family reunion? And before the frost trolls, it had been ice wraiths, two saber cats, a Wispmother, and a set of bandits with aforementioned necromancer, all within half an hour of the ruins. She was perilously low on health potions and completely out of magicka boosters.

Ysmir pushed her hair back from where it had escaped her braid to dangle onto her forehead, panting for breath as she watched the pair of hulking brutes shuffle back and forth outside the barrow-like structure she had ducked into when her magicka ran out. She wasn't quite ready to face them again. Actually, she was quite content to sit in here and either wait for them to go away or for her magicka to come back. Perhaps she could sneak by them later.

She scrambled back as one reached in for her, realizing that if she wanted them to forget her, perhaps burning half their hide off hadn't been the best idea earlier. Rolling her neck and shoulders to ease some of the tension from them she continued further back into the domed structure. There was a room in the center—maybe she'd get lucky and it was the entrance to Shalidor's Maze.

The room wasn't an entrance to anywhere, it turned out, but it was fascinating. A skeleton lay against a shrine with carven figures that pricked her memory, somehow… Stepping closer, Ysmir frowned as she kicked something, looking down.

"What do we have here?" she asked rhetorically, bending to scoop up what appeared to be a Dragon Priest's mask. It was wood, and it hummed faintly in her hands, although she couldn't tell by looking what it was meant to do—which was noteworthy all on its own. There was a letter near the corpse, and she knelt beside it to read, grimacing. "Poor fellow," she said, noting by the position of the skull that he had probably just popped back in to find an axe heading toward his neck. Curious, and with nothing else to do for the moment, she put on the mask.

The world changed in a gradual instant as everything seemed to pull strangely, similar to when she had read the Elder Scroll at the Throat of the World. The room was altered in time, as it was far in the past, she supposed. Eagerly, she checked the chests for potions, but they were disappointingly empty. The shrine with the statues was undamaged now, though, and she flinched when she realized exactly what it was. Tentatively, she brushed her fingers over the empty face of one of the Dragon Priest busts, but felt nothing more than cold stone.

"Eight statues," she pursed her lips, gazing at them, then sighed. "There are _more_ of those things?" With a heavy sigh, she pulled the mask from her face. It wasn't as smooth inside as a mask should be, anyway. She wondered how many splinters that mage had gotten.

"Ysmir."

She jumped and shrieked, whirling. "What are you doing here?" she demanded belligerently, heart pounding as she stared at Miraak. "How did you find me?"

"I can always find you," he said absently, moving past her to look at the shrine. His own mask was tightly in place, giving her no idea what he was thinking. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," she replied, drawing herself up. "Something here you need to take over the world?" She paused, realizing what she had just said, and scowled. "Oh, for Divine's sake, Miraak; how many masks do you need?"

"Darva's missing."

Ysmir sighed, shoving the wooden mask in her knapsack. "No, she's not. We moved away from the house for a little while, is all. Wait…how would you know that?"

He turned to face her, and she could see the worry in his eyes through the narrow slits of the mask, reassuringly their normal blue and gold selves again, and not the black of the Void. That worry caught her off-guard, ending her indignation at his apparent spying before it began. "That's not what I meant. She was stolen four nights ago from High Hrothgar."

Her heart seemed to stop a moment, and she felt as if the blood in her veins froze in dread. "No," she denied, staring at him with wide eyes, head shaking slowly from side to side. "Arngeir promised they would look after her. Paarthurnax is there. No one could pry her out of the monastery."

"They came, they took, and they left. The Greybeards didn't even know until afterwards. One of my cultists saw it happen," he said flatly, leather creaking as his hands curled into fists.

"Your _cultists?"_ she snarled, her fear channeling abruptly into rage. "And what were _your cultists_ doing near my daughter? For the love of Julianos, _why didn't they stop it from happening?"_ she shrieked, very nearly sending a fireball his way, the spell flickering out in her palm for want of magicka.

"He wasn't even supposed to be there, and he nearly died trying to protect her!" Miraak snapped, anger and worry matching hers in his voice and stopping her rage in its tracks. "He wasn't supposed to be there," he repeated, tone softer as he took in her expression, but frustration still evident. "He's not a warrior, the fool, but he saw what happened and crawled his way back to the monastery to tell your thrice-damned Greybeards what happened, because those useless old fools weren't even paying attention enough to notice, and both of them Shouted!"

Her heart seemed to constrict again. "Both of them?"

"Your Redguard boy was with her. The warriors took them both. They didn't seem to know which one they were after," he told her, his voice returning to that flat tone, with more than a hint of weariness behind it.

"Alesan…" she sank onto one of the piles of rubble, staring at the floor. Her pulse sounded in her ears so loudly she could barely hear anything else, and her head swam as it became harder to breathe. She needed to get them back—to save them! Where did she even start? Her poor babies…in danger again, and she hadn't been there. Once again, she hadn't been there.

Trying to reign in her emotions at this point was futile. It was all she could do not to be sick, wanting to run out and do something but with no direction, no inkling of where to go next.

Miraak had begun to pace, talking all through this and apparently oblivious to her panic. "I tried tracking her. I've done nothing but search since I heard, but I can't hear her clearly. Bad enough there's some sort of magical fog spreading interference across half of Skyrim; it's as if something was hiding her dragon soul. I've found just about every dragon in Skyrim—even the dead ones—but I can't find her!"

"Her…" Ysmir swallowed thickly as that penetrated the fog her mind had fallen into, "Her dragon soul?" she echoed, staring. "Then…then she really is…"

Miraak snorted. "You doubted?"

"Perhaps you can't sense her because…because she's not—"

"You're deluding yourself if you think that," he told her bluntly.

"I had to hope," she admitted, giving in to the inevitable.

"But you knew—you would have been able to sense it," he turned at the wall again, heading back towards the other. "What I want to know is how someone else was able to find out."

Fighting to hear him over the blood that pounded in her ears, a roaring that almost drowned out even his _thu'um_-laced voice_,_ she managed to ask, "Who? Who took her?"

"If I knew that, don't you think I'd be after them?" he growled, his pacing turning to stomping. "Turinmar was rather badly off when he tried to tell me what happened. When he wakes up perhaps we can learn more. Stupid, stubborn Dunmer…" he muttered that last, shooting her a glance then finally halting to really look at her. After a moment he came over slowly, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his, rubbing them a little when he felt how cold they were. Briefly, his hands flared with blue-white light, and she felt Calm wash over her, settling into her bones and causing the fog of frantic worry to dissipate. Surprised, she looked up slightly to see he had taken his mask off for her. "We can find her. I know she's alive, and I know she's relatively unhurt. You can sense it as well; otherwise you would have felt something was wrong."

"Who all knows, Miraak? One of your cultists was there…was it my enemies or yours that took her?" she asked, still feeling as if her thoughts were moving through molasses. "I don't even know how many enemies I _have;_ with yours thrown in…"

"Turinmar is the only one, and I never told him," Miraak assured her, reaching up and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She flinched away, and he lowered his hand.

"What was he doing there, then?" she asked.

"Trying to learn about you," Miraak admitted. "He wanted to know why…why I wanted you alive."

"Why you hadn't killed me," she retorted, turning away and drawing her hands out of his.

"Just so," he admitted, rising to his feet. "Now, do you have any way of finding her that I don't? I'm not exactly ready to go announce to all my followers to be on the lookout for a blond five year old girl."

"If you even try I might have to kill you," she warned dully, fully meaning it. She might harbor an insane affection for the man, but she would still choose her daughter over him any day. Even if his followers miraculously left Darva alone, no child deserved growing up being known as the offspring of a Daedra. Something else occurred to her, and she glanced up at him sharply. "Augie."

He frowned in confusion, "Augie?" he echoed.

"The Augur of Dunlain," she clarified, not knowing whether to be surprised or not when his eyes lit with recognition, "He sent me a message the day before last wanting to speak to me about a vision he'd had."

Miraak scowled, making the dragon half of his face look as if it were snarling at her, "Then why are you here? In Bromjunaar, of all places?" he snapped, waving an arm at the room around them, and presumably the ruins beyond it.

She frowned. "Bromjunaar?"

"Labyrinthian," he clarified impatiently.

"It's…a long story," she told him, raking her hair out of her eyes, then giving up and yanking it out of its braid and starting a new one.

"Summation, please," he said, his tone belying the request as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. The movement seemed to accentuate the breadth of his shoulders.

"Where to start…" she mused, fingers deftly weaving the fine red strands as she thought. "When I was an apprentice, years ago, we found an artifact under Saarthal..."

"You? That was you?" he interrupted, astonished. "Mora was beside himself when someone pulled the Eye of Magnus from that ruin. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you would be foolish enough to get yourself involved with that mess."

"Mora wanted it?" she asked, mouth dry. What if Miraak wanted it as well?

Miraak shook his head. "He couldn't use it, but he was positively gleeful about the havoc its presence would cause."

She spread her arms. "Welcome to the havoc. The College is surrounded by an impenetrable barrier that's keeping me from learning what Augie saw, apparently fogging up the magical landscape so that even _you_ can't find her, and now I'm here to get the dratted Staff of bloody Magnus which is somewhere in this troll-ridden ice-pile of a city, the key to which is hidden somewhere in that skeever-hole Shalidor called a maze!"

Miraak lifted his eyebrow at her and she realized she was yelling at him. Looking away and taking a deep breath, she forced her hands to unclench, reminding herself that even if he drove her crazy, Miraak was not to blame for Ancano's actions. Probably.

"So the only chance we have to find Darva is locked away in a College surrounded by mystical energy that neither one of us can touch?" he reiterated, surprisingly composed. The calculating gleam in his eyes caught her breath slightly, though she couldn't say if it were for good reasons or bad ones, and if there was really a difference between the two in this case.

"Pretty much," she groused, then blinked when he came over and offered her a hand up.

"Well then," he said, giving her a disconcertingly dark, charming smile, "I guess we need to get that Staff."

Her eyebrows shot up. "We?"

"We," he answered firmly, pulling her to her feet and turning to stride towards the door.

"I don't need your help!" she snapped, jogging after him as his longer legs took him to the end of the barrow in seconds. He paused at the entrance, just out of reach of the heavy arms grasping at him.

"Is that why you're hiding in here from some frost trolls?" he asked, smirk audible, "Because you don't need help?"

"Oh, go sit on a dragon tooth," she muttered, crossing her arms in a huff and turning away.

"I would much rather not," he said lightly, surprising her by drawing his sword and leaping out of the safety of the barrow. Ysmir gaped a moment, wondering why he wasn't just using his powers before remembering that he was a Nord, and she had yet to meet a Nord that didn't occasionally want to bash something's skull in. He also seemed much more cheerful than when he arrived, and with a shock she realized that she did as well, despite everything. Perhaps, she thought, watching him toy with the trolls a bit, it was because there was something they could do. She always got antsy when she had a problem she couldn't do anything about; maybe Miraak was the same.

If so, it must have driven him up a wall to be stuck in a library for so many years.

"So, do you actually know where Shalidor's maze is?" she asked him, wandering out and kicking one of the troll corpses as he sheathed that bizarre sword of his. Too bad it would take too long to harvest the fat off the creatures, even if she had any containers to carry it in.

"Which one?" he asked, and she paused.

"There's more than one?" she couldn't hide the dismay in her voice.

Miraak graced her with the look of a tutor whose student has proven incurably stupid. "You didn't know?"

She crossed her arms. "This is you helping?"

He motioned her over to another edifice behind the barrow. "This place used to be so much larger," he mused, looking around. "It spread down into the valley and further up the pass, and these platforms had actual buildings on them."

"There's nothing in the pass," she retorted, taking two steps for every one of his as she hurried along behind him.

"Anymore," he replied, a strange, poignant look on his face. "One of the ancient jarls decided it would be easier to haul the stone out of here than to quarry and cut more of it. I believe a good portion of Bromjunaar now encircles the city of Whiterun. Between that and a rather impressive landslide some centuries back, there's little left. It's a shame really. There were some wonders of architecture here."

"You're remarkably chatty," she observed, stumbling over a rock hidden in the snow.

"It's been a long while since I've been here," he informed her. "I supposed I'm just…remembering." He stopped, though, and she was sorry she had mentioned it. She'd take nostalgic Miraak over condescending Miraak any day. "Here's the maze," he told her, halting before a large wooden door. "Wait here a moment."

She looked away from the door in surprise as he vanished, leaving a little trail of black smoke where he had been standing. He was gone, for the moment. Good. She shook herself, rubbing her hands absently on her thighs as she tried to get her blood to cool. Normally she would be freezing, but something about watching Miraak take out those trolls like they were Rieklings had made her pulse quicken and her skin flush. With any luck he had attributed that to the cold.

What was wrong with her? Her daughter and son were missing and she was admiring the way the man handled his sword? True, she had known when Darva was truly hurt, but only when she was close. Odahviing had said Miraak was more in tune with his dragon soul than she was, so perhaps he could sense further than she could. But she knew Darva better. He obviously had been keeping an eye on things (and oh, were they having a talk about _that_ later!), but he hadn't actually met the girl, and he certainly hadn't carried her to term as she had, then held her in his arms as she grew up. The image her mind conjured of Miraak holding their baby sent a lance of regret through her, so she pushed it away. It couldn't have been then, and it couldn't be now.

"Here we are," Miraak popped back into Nirn with a small puff of displaced air, holding a book. "Now, we have the original maze created by Shalidor and the one made by a later Arch Mage who was sick of his apprentices getting themselves killed in it. Which do you want?" At her silence, he looked up and noticed her staring at him, face slightly pink, but all he said was, "Well?" with a touch of impatience.

"Er…I don't know. Has either been used in the last couple of decades? Savos left the key here intending no one else could get it."

"The original, then," he said with resignation, pulling a bit of charcoal out of nowhere and marking in the book, making her frown in disapproval. Walking forward, he pushed open the doors. A familiar chanting filled her mind, and he glanced at her with a little, knowing grin that made her stomach do a strange, acrobatic maneuver she hadn't thought it capable of. "Why don't you go discover whatever is calling to you while I work out the path through?" he suggested, giving her the distinct impression that she was distracting him and he wanted her out of his hair for a few minutes.

Fine with her. Going around the maze altogether, Ysmir approached the Word Wall as the chanting increased. One Word blazed bright, flowing into her. It had been a surprisingly long time since she had found a new Wall, and she walked forward to brush her hand over the cuneiform, looking up at the carving above it. Not for the first time, she wondered if humans had carved the Words, or if they had been Shouted onto the Walls. She rather thought the first, since the alignment was always so uniform.

_"Maar._ Terror," Miraak said from behind her, and she felt the meaning of the Word flowing into her from him as he came to stand behind her, so close she could feel the heat rise from him, making her heart beat wildly. She pretended it was from the meaning of the Word.

"How did you know which Word was resonating?" she asked, turning to look at him and put some much-needed distance between them. True, he had just saved her having to use a dragon soul, but having the knowledge of a Word gifted to her felt strangely intimate from Miraak. Worse, she wasn't entirely sure why he had done it. What could he possibly gain from sharing his knowledge with her?

"I can sense it. You should be able to, as well, even in Walls you've already seen before," he told her, sounding like she had missed something obvious.

She bristled, but realized he was right. The few times she had needed to revisit a Wall there had been a kind of glimmer around some words, a hint that they might glow and seep through her skin. "I thought you had something you needed to do," she said stiffly.

"Done," he replied, his eyebrows cocking upwards as he showed her the maze on the page of the book. "You walk remarkably slowly."

"I'm shorter than you!" she pointed out, then wished she hadn't when she realized he was goading her. "I think I like it better when you're contemplating my demise," she grumbled, snatching the book and turning away. "This doesn't look any different than this maze. Same shape, same two entrances…"

"I'll show you the difference," he replied, striding towards the front.

"Stop walking so fast!" she burst out, sprinting forward and grabbing his arm.

That had been a mistake. Ysmir yanked her hand back as a shock coursed through her. Miraak had halted, slowly turning to look at her, lips just barely parted. He leaned towards her slightly, and her breath caught.

Then he plucked the book from her grasp and strode away from her just as quickly as before.

After a moment she groaned in frustration and hurried after, catching up with him at the entrance to the maze, where a circular stone with a burnt corpse upon it lay. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or annoyed that he had put his mask back on. As they approached the circle, four staffs rose from holes set around the perimeter. Ysmir sighed and started for them, but Miraak stopped her. "Don't," he commanded, and she gave him a questioning, irate look. "We won't need them," he explained haughtily.

Walking up to the corpse, he pulled the soul gem from its hand, gazing at it a moment. With a flick of his fingers the body went flying, and he dashed the soul gem where it had lain.

The stone of the circle began to glow, then pull apart in a curving line down the center, as if on the letter "s." Ysmir gazed down into the hole curiously, seeing neither stairs nor ladder. "How do we get down?" she asked.

Miraak shrugged. "You're supposed to jump. This wasn't supposed to be a test people took lightly; once you go in, there is only one way out."

"If Savos hid it in the easy maze I'm going to Shout at him when he's found," she sighed. _"Feim!"_ she Shouted, then dove into the black entrance of Shalidor's Maze.

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**Well, as you can see, I've completely redesigned Shalidor's Maze. I've not replaced the one in-game, just kind of added to it. If it helps, think of it as a written mod. ;P One that's going to take several chapters, simply because Miraak and Ysmir have a lot of issues.**

**Someone asked me if Ysmir holds back while fighting, so I thought I'd just share the answer here: she doesn't, but I hold her back. Game-wise, foes are probably about as powerful as they are around level thirty (except where boss trolls are concerned :P ) because passed that I think fighting become too easy, and half the reason I started this fic was as an exercise in writing fight scenes. Then, of course, plot interfered. **

**On that note, if you all could tell me what you think of the fight scenes, either as a review or a PM, I'd be indebted to you forever. I am trying to do this as a career, after all (not fanfiction, this is actually my only non-original work), and feedback is very appreciated. I would love to know what to work on. Hearing what people like and dislike in my writing really helps, and I get excited when you guys speculate what you think is going to happen, or hear your wishful thoughts on the matter. **

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! You're aaaaawwwwesoooome! ^_^**

**Sevvyn: Thank you! I'm always glad to inspire aw, awe, and awwwww with my writing.**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Can you imagine the family tree? By then it would probably need to be embossed on the inner flap of the Book of Daedra. Sheogorath's name is crossed out several times in several different colors of crayon and replaced with Rommy, Sanguine's name trails off, and Hermaeous Mora's was pried out with a dagger to make room for a big gold star that says "Miraak."**

**afeleon276: Aw, thank you! *^_^* Any short stories that come out of this that had Rommy and Sheo in it would probably be about Blaise. Just because he's so good getting into shenanigans. If you want to make your own Rommy feel free. Any changes made could just be summed up to it being an alternate universe-which, if I'm not mistaken-is actually supported by TES lore.**

**Wynni: Lydia is fond of Romulus and will miss him, but it hasn't gotten to the point of pining, yet. Chins have actually been domesticated for almost a hundred years- -longer if you count the natives breeding them for food and fur. Wild chinchillas are actually endangered due to over-hunting, and there are chinchilla ranches where they are bred for their fur.**

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**Next week: Miraak and Ysmir traverse a long hallway together, which gives them an opportunity to have a normal, somewhat civil conversation...maybe. Until they get to the Alteration test, anyway.**


	62. Chapter 62: Alteration

Ysmir landed badly, slipping on loose rock and sliding down a slight slope of pebbles and bone fragments. She stood, brushing herself off and reflecting that it was a good thing she had used Become Ethereal before leaping into the maze. There were enough mammoth tusks or rib cages jutting upward that it might as well have been a spike trap, not to mention the occasional rusted weapon or two.

Miraak was already there when she looked back, though she wasn't sure if he had jumped or teleported down. He was standing spotlit in the wan light that filtered down from above, the dust of their fall swirling around him as bits of snow sprinkled down like tiny diamonds to rest among the rubble and bits of bone. He examined his hands silently, light glinting off his mask as he adjusted the angle of his gaze slightly, and she tilted her head curiously, wondering what was wrong.

"Shalidor lives up to his reputation, even now," he said, hands closing into fists. "There is a shield against Daedric interference on this place, probably to negate the use of any Artifacts. I haven't seen this since Morokei invented it. How irritating."

"There is a spell that can keep out a _Daedra?"_ she asked incredulously. She stretched, shaking out her jitters from the fall, stopping abruptly when his gaze started to make her uncomfortable. "So how are you even in here?" she inquired, letting her arms drop back to her side, the clink of her chainmail all but missing under its muffle enchantment.

He shrugged, finally looking away from her. "It is more blessing than spell. You've seen it before: Storn of the Skaal once used something similar to keep my influence out of the village," he flexed his hands again, as if he didn't recognize them. "I suspect that any Daedra that had not once been a mortal would not have been able to enter so easily, or else Morokei's spell was not as powerful as he boasted. Perhaps both. As it is, I don't believe I shall try to use the abilities I gained from Mora until we reach the end. I can get through the maze using my own abilities."

The Last Dragonborn put her hands on her hips, insulted. "Because I've never cast a spell in my life," she sassed.

"I didn't mean it that way," he said testily, moving past her and pressing his hand to a wall. Magelight flared around the top perimeter of the wall, racing like a flame over lamp oil until the entire room was lit, seeming to drip downward into the joints of the cobbles for a short way. Ysmir snapped her mouth shut before he could see that she was gaping a little; she had never seen magelight used like that, only cast as a ball.

The room was in shambles. There had never been much in it, but mortar and bits of rock littered the floor, along with bones and the signs that something predatory had once lived in here. The bleaching effects of the magelight made it look uncomfortably as if she had stumbled into the Soul Cairn again. At the far end it tapered like a funnel, where a familiar circular door barred the way. She sighed. "You wouldn't happen to have a Dragon's Claw, would you?"

"We don't need one," he said, pulling his mask up and studying the door, then stepping aside to gesture for her to see.

Ysmir frowned and came forward, eyebrows rising. "That's a first," she commented, staring at the twin keyholes where the Dragon Claw impression should be. Faint script encircled them, and the top of each hole was marked with a setting, as if for a jewel. They were long gone—pried out with a dagger, by the look of things. Now that she was close enough, she saw that the door had five rings, rather than the usual three, marked with the sigils for the Schools of Magic.

"The forging of Dragon Claws was a secret held by the Dragon Rule," he explained, fingers ghosting over the faint writing ringing the keyholes. "It doesn't really surprise me Shalidor didn't have one. This calls for the two keys hidden in Labyrinthian—the Diamond Key and the Sapphire Key."

"So someone would have to go all through Labyrinthian looking for a couple of keys just to _enter _his maze?" Ysmir exclaimed, appalled.

Miraak shrugged. "As I said, Bromjunaar was once massive. It earned the name Labyrinthian. The Keys themselves were guarded by the wraiths of two brothers that entered looking for the Secret of Life. They spent eras after their death guarding it." His tone was wry; his dragon eye seemed to glow as he glanced at her, made all the more striking by the way his scales seemed black in the dim lighting. "Shalidor had a rather twisted sense of humor," he added with an upward twitch of his lips.

She rolled her eyes and ignored the way her breath wanted to hitch a bit. "What did you do, read his journal?"

"I drank with him once. He was the first and only person to read a Black Book while sitting on a case of ale. Fascinating man, if a bit full of himself," he said, rising. Even crouching, he had barely had to look up to speak to her.

"You're joking," she said flatly, watching him search around for something. The magelight grew brighter, seeming to flow downward along the edges of the stones to fill more of the wall. Shivering a little at the effect, she resolutely looked away, determined not to let him see how such a small thing bothered her. Were all his spells going to take on a life of their own? "What are you looking for?"

"I'm hoping your Savos dropped the Keys here somewhere," he supplied, and she belatedly started searching through the gravel as well. "And no, I'm not joking. He kept trying to interrogate me about how to use stalhrim. I don't think he could really wrap his head around the idea of permanently enchanted ice. His pet theory was that it was somehow stolen from Frost Atronachs." He cast his eyes upward at the foolishness of one of the greatest mages that ever lived.

Ysmir looked up at him skeptically, dropping what looked like an abnormally large cow skull back into the dust next to what appeared to be a giant's ribcage. A very wide giant. "You know about stalhrim?"

He scoffed, "I'm Atmoran; of course I know about stalhrim."

That stopped her cold, and she gave up searching to stare at him. "I thought you were a Nord."

Miraak—damn him—gave her a look of deep amusement. "No, I'm Atmoran. My mother and I sailed to Skyrim when I was about Darva's age. Nords came a few score generations later."

"But…Atmorans stopped coming to Tamriel in the beginning of the First Era," she argued, stunned. "That would make you older than the First Era!"

"Ysmir, you're making me feel positively elderly," he replied, definitely laughing at her.

She threw a handful of gravel at him. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" he demanded, irritated again as he side-stepped the pebbles.

"Stop joking around! We have to get through here quickly and—" _and I_ c_an't handle you acting normal,_ she though. _I can't handle you making me laugh._ This was not one of her normal companions. He was not someone she should talk with, laugh with, connect to. Things would be so much easier if she could shove him into the category of "the enemy" and leave it at that, but she'd never been able to. She'd always thought of him as a person, from the moment she met him. Pitied him, did he but know it. Empathized with him for being jerked around by something too powerful to stop or escape from. Now she wished she hadn't. She turned away, examining the door again. "Do you think it's pickable?"

"I would frankly hate to see what would happen if you tried," he said, serious again. "But I don't think Shalidor would risk potential arch mages dying just because one of their predecessors neglected to return the Keys to the Domains. So…" he leaned forward and touched the door, and to her amazement the rings began to spin, then halted one by one until the door began sinking into the floor.

"How did you do that?" she couldn't help but ask.

His expression was pure skepticism. "You don't know the Open spell?"

"Know it? I've never even heard of it!" she shook her head. "Even Mirabelle—the Master Wizard—carries a set of lockpicks in case one of the apprentices manages to lock himself in somewhere."

Miraak made a thoughtful noise as he headed on through. "As I doubt a Master Wizard would need a set of lockpicks otherwise, I suppose the spell fell into disuse. I can't imagine why, unless it was deemed too dangerous and all the spellbooks collected."

"Tolfdir once told me that magic used to be a lot more versatile and complicated than it is now," she admitted, looking around. The maze room looked just like the one above, save that the maze was bigger and there was a decrepit ceiling full of roots, and no Word Wall behind. "So this is the real maze?"

"The one on the surface is a watered-down copy of this," Miraak confirmed scornfully. "Most who enter the newer maze emerge—if not victorious, then at least alive. Here you either succeed, or you die."

"I can't tell whether you approve or not," she said uncomfortably, making her way towards the break in the wall. Light seemed to hover like mist along the top edge of the wall, giving off enough illumination to make it seem ambient. Only the slight glimmer and her knowledge of enchantments betrayed its source. It didn't fade with distance, either, but simply stopped abruptly about a hundred paces from the maze, as if stopped by an invisible wall. Later, when she had more time, she decided to come back and study how exactly it was done.

"Shalidor believed magic should not be used casually," Miraak told her. "He thought that if one wanted to be a mage, they should be held to higher standards. In many ways, I agree. At the very least, it would cut down on the number of idiots who destroyed their home trying to summon something they hadn't the wit to control."

"Even those who dedicate their lives to magic do that," she protested, thinking of the dead apprentices in the Midden.

"And if they are not fools, they will have a stronger, more experienced mage around to pull them from the fire if their attempt is too successful," he said firmly.

"You had no fun as a child, did you?" she sighed without thinking.

"I survived my childhood, which is more than many could say," he snapped grimly. "Surely you do not allow your fosterlings to practice magic unwatched?"

She shrugged. "I've only shown them a few things. Restoration spells, mostly. None of them seem particularly interested in learning more. And they're not 'fosterlings;' they're mine."

There was a long moment when he said nothing. Finally, he pulled his mask back down and started inside the long, featureless hallway before them. "I'd have my mage armor ready, if I were you."

She sighed, feeling decidedly sheepish and reluctant to tell him the truth, but he would be finding out shortly, anyway. Might as well get it over with. "I…I'm rubbish at Alteration spells."

He paused and stared at her. "Are you serious?"

Ysmir shrugged, flushing uncomfortably. "If I really need it, I just invoke Dragon Aspect, but I tend to wait until the situation is desperate for that, in case I get into a worse scrape later."

"How often do you get into trouble that you feel you have to save using your only armor ability?" he asked incredulously.

"Well…" Ysmir wrinkled her nose, then scowled as she remembered just who she was talking to. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Miraak."

He shook his head, sounding absolutely disgusted as he commented "At least you have sense enough to wear chainmail with your mage robes. How did you survive all these years?"

"By dodging!" she spat, hurrying after him—and why couldn't the man just _slow down?_ "Not everyone just stands in once place and lets people hit them, you know!"

"I can see why; you'd be obliterated in one hit."

"I would not!"

"Why don't you wear armor?" he asked, pausing as he apparently realized he had outdistanced her so easily. "It's not like you couldn't enchant it with the same spells as your robes."

"Because it's freezing," she supplied grouchily. "I'm not a cold-resistant Nord like…like most people in this mountainous ice box of a country," she groused, changing what she was about to say at the last moment as she remembered that Miraak didn't consider himself a Nord. Was he technically a Nord? She wasn't sure. Some scholars referred to the various descendants of the Atmorans as "Proto-Nords," which she had always found hilarious. She doubted Miraak would appreciate being called a Proto-Nord.

"Why don't you wear a cloak?" he inquired, starting on again once she had caught up. He sounded thoroughly exasperated with her, and she resented it.

"Because it gets caught on everything. I tried wearing insulated padding under light armor, but that slowed my movement. Trust me, I've tried compromising. Nothing seems to work."

Miraak sighed again but let the subject drop. Ysmir felt decidedly strange with the turn in conversation—not because he was criticizing her, which she expected, but because he was criticizing her with her well-being in mind. He was worried about her getting herself killed, like everyone else who'd ever cared about her.

_He doesn't care about me,_ she reminded herself, _he just…_she had to stop there, because she really couldn't think of a good reason for him to be berating her if he didn't care about her, at least a little. Of course, he could think of her as a possession, but since he was hardly throwing her over his shoulder and marching back to Apocrypha, she sort of doubted it. The best answer was for the same reason she had been reluctant to fight him back when she first learned of his existence; because she was Dragonborn, and so was he, and they were the only two in the world.

Well, now there was Darva, too. And they needed to find her. Bickering wasn't helping anything, even if it did make her feel slightly better. Being annoyed at him had the added benefit of helping her keep her hands to herself, as well, though she would never admit it out loud. Stupid, stubborn, ridiculously smart man, with his broad shoulders and his tight—oh, gods.

_"'Alteration will lead you to Destruction. Only Illusion shows the way to Restoration. Conjure not, but be conjured instead,'"_ Miraak recited quietly, his voice echoing with that strange, hollow quality it got whenever he wore his mask. It reminded her a bit of Augie, actually.

"What?" she asked, seizing on the distraction from her thoughts with relief.

"Did you even bother to research the place before coming here?" he asked her acidly.

"Considering the only library that I'm aware of in the whole of Skyrim was behind that pesky barrier; no, I didn't. That has to do with the maze, then?" she asked, making a marked effort to be civil.

"Yes. It's from _A Minor Maze_, and it's the only instructions given for traversing the maze," he said. "In the simpler version, you would cast a spell—or use one of the staffs—on the sigil of each School. I'm presuming we do the same down here, but there is sure to be more involved."

"So, cast something at that?" she asked, pointing down the path where a terminating wall had just appeared instead of the endless curve of the hallway, the half-bare tree of the Alteration sigil hanging on a shield affixed to the wall. It wasn't the same sigil she was accustomed to; it was more ornate, with a moon, stars and sun in the background and knotwork ornamentation everywhere. It looked like a tapestry, really, and she rather liked the effect. "Not very maze-like, is it?" she asked, glancing back at the winding path behind.

Miraak made a dismissive sound. "Enjoy it while it lasts; it gets much worse from here."

The hall abruptly widened into a room just before the sigil. Ysmir gazed at the threshold suspiciously for a long moment before she stepped over it, but there was no evidence of tripwires (which would have long been triggered or decayed anyway, she told herself) or pressure plates. After a few seconds of similar scrutiny, Miraak did the same, looking around.

"Well, let's get on with this," he sighed, then cast at the sigil.

Nothing happened, and Ysmir exhaled irritably. "Well, this was a waste of time," she muttered, pushing wisps of hair off her forehead and turning to go see if they had found the wrong sigil, or if perhaps there was more than one. She jerked back slightly when she nearly collided with the wall. "Miraak…"

He turned and cursed, running his hand over the blank wall where the door had been. "It's not hidden," he confirmed without her needing to ask, taking a step back. "What in Oblivion was he…" he trailed off ominously, looking down at the slightly darkened fingers of his gloves, then turning slowly to look at the walls.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to see what had caught his attention.

The walls were damp. Water leaked sluggishly from the seams, forming puddles along the perimeter of the room within moments. It spread across the floor as they stared, backing away as it came toward them. The moment it touched her feet, soaking through her boots, Ysmir suddenly felt as if someone had thrown a few suits of ebony armor onto her, and staggered.

"Crushing Burden of Sin," Miraak realized, stumbling into the wall. He intercepted her look of incomprehension and added, "Burden spells force the target to feel as if they are laboring under a heavy load, making it hard to move. It's the most powerful spell of its kind."

Her eyes widened as the implication hit. "Oh Divines," she uttered, and the trickle turned into a torrent, filling up the small room with alarming speed. She watched as he cast another spell, attempting several times with no effect other than to make him curse.

"Do you know the Waterbreathing spell?" he asked urgently, turning towards her and grabbing her by the shoulders, making her face him rather than the rapidly rising water. "Do you know it?"

"I can't make it work!" she wailed as the water lapped around her calves, then knees. "Nothing in this damned School has ever worked for me! I can't even get Candlelight working most of the time!" Her heart pounded wildly as she watched the water rise, feeling as if someone had coated her skin in heavy plaster. "Oh Talos, I'm going to drown," she realized numbly.

"Calm down," he said, although he didn't sound entirely calm himself. "The water won't stay forever—there are limits to the Waterbreathing spell. The water will dissipate before the spell would expire."

"That's still longer than I can hold my breath! I'm not a fucking Argonian!" she growled, getting angry. If she ever ran into Shalidor in the afterlife she was going to kill him. "Can't you open a portal or something?" she asked, all the fight seeping out of her in an instant as the water licked at her collarbone. She could barely move, she felt so heavy. Only a few seconds left.

He shook his head, sounding frustrated. "I tried. The Feather spell doesn't seem to help, either. I can't even lift you up right now."

"Wouldn't help much," she noted, gazing up at the ceiling growing across the space between the tops of the walls, cutting off their light brick by summoned brick. Shalidor had thought of everything, it seemed. Psychotic son of a bitch. She was going to do unspeakable things to his spirit when she found it. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as the water covered her head, she reflected that at least Miraak would still be around to find Darva. The maze may be able to keep him from using his abilities, but he was still immortal now.

She wouldn't consider what Miraak raising Darva would mean for their daughter, either. Whatever happened, at least she would be alive. Darva would see to it that Miraak rescued Alesan, too, and she could count on Lydia to look after the rest of her family. Gods, though, she wanted to see them again. She wanted to see all of them again. She wanted to apologize to Vil for making him miserable, she wanted to drink with Farkas and Inigo, to hunt with Aela, to go adventuring with Argis and Serana, to hold her children, and dammit even eat cheese with Sheogorath!

Her lungs were burning, aching, screaming for air. Her heart thudded against her chest so hard she thought it might break her breastbone, and her pulse thundered in her ears. Of all the ways she had thought she might die, drowning had never been too high on the list. The water was terribly cold, and she felt so heavy she could barely move. Her knees gave way under the assault of it all, but rather than sinking all the way to the bottom, she found herself being pulled forward, against a warm, hard surface. Firm lips covered hers and her mouth opened in surprise.

Air flooded her lungs.

It seemed like forever that they stayed like that, pressed together in a water filled death trap with Miraak breathing for both of them. Abruptly, the weight seemed to leave and light flooded the dim chamber. They collapsed as the water around them vanished like it had never been, save that they both were soaked and shivering, clinging to each other as they gasped and coughed.

"When I get the measure of this Daedric Prince business," Miraak said at last, pushing his bedraggled hair out of his face with a hand that shook only slightly, "remind me to go hunting for Shalidor. I want to have a word with him. Several, in fact."

"Can I watch?" she groaned, rubbing her arms then setting fire runes on the walls around them to heat the air. Realizing how close they were, she let go of him and scooted away a bit, putting her back against the wall as she caught her breath. Miraak's expression closed a bit, but all he did was rise and retrieve his mask, slipping it back on. "Thank you," she added, putting all her very real gratitude in those two words.

"You're welcome," he replied levelly, looking away from her for a few moments as he moved about, trying to warm up.

Ysmir closed her eyes, summoning her flame cloak now that he was out of its area—though it hadn't seemed to bother him lately—and trying to relax a bit. "Ysmir," he said softly, and her eyes opened to follow his gaze to the far wall, where the Alteration sigil had been. A door stood there, leading into another section of maze. They could see it fork further on.

"Great Divines," she groaned, "What next?"

"_'Alteration will lead you to Destruction," _he reminded her, holding out a hand to help her to her feet, confirming that the flame cloak didn't worry him in the slightest. She took it, but pulled from his grasp the moment she was on her feet, trying to gain some distance.

"Right," she sighed, pulling her robes straight and wringing water from her hair. "This was only the first trial."

"Four more to go," he confirmed grimly, leading the way.

**.**

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**Hello, all. I hope you've been having a good week. I learned something this week: Two chinchillas are a great way to keep three children occupied. They sit and stare at them with wide eyes looking like they're about to burst. It's adorable. The kids are pretty cute, too.**

**At long last, I got my goldfish tank! I got three fancy-tailed goldfish to put in it. One is silver, there is a red and white koi-patterned one, and a little albino one with one blue eye and one red that died yesterday. :( It was very sad, but I'm told (after the fact, of course) that two different colored eyes in a fish is normally a sign of heavy inbreeding, and they don't last too long.**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Wynni: Well, I hope you're happy with the Miraak/Ysmir interaction you're getting. They're going to be stuck together for several chapters. Because I'm evil and they're fun. Pine away. We may hear from Rommy later. Maybe. Haven't made up my mind yet. I'll keep my eyes open for any that develop stripes.**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: No one expects Daedra to just show up. They're worse than the Spanish Inquisition. Or, were you expecting Miraak to be DIShonest because he is a Daedra?**

**afeleon276: I'm glad to hear your ringing endorsement of Miraak's parenting skills. XD As for Delphine, perhaps is really all I can say without giving too many spoilers...**

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**Next Week: The Twins go to pick up a certain passel of Brats.**


	63. Chapter 63: What It Means to be Strong

Serana stared at the moon flickering off the water of the river, sitting quietly above the door to Melka's cave. She didn't bother keeping her visage that of a vampire's at the moment, since none of the children would venture out here. She'd always hated the grotesque, bat-like transformation of some people's faces when they became a vampire, but she couldn't think of a better way to keep the children from recognizing her later on such short notice. Poor Runa had looked terrified when she had first met Melka, although the girl seemed fine with the Hag now. Aventus…he had hidden his fear better, but she had still sensed it. In the short time she'd been around the children she'd really started to like them, and couldn't bring herself to leave them alone when they were trying so very hard to be brave.

It had been over a week, and she had sat vigil here every night, hoping Aventus would return. Her gaze turned to the moons, making their slow but visible progress across the sky, and she wiped a bloody tear from her face before the light breeze could get her hair caught in it. She never should have left him out here alone that night. He had seemed so mature, though: She'd thought he could handle it. When she'd found those Foresworn she had been horrified, then panicked, and she and Illia had visited all the nearby camps, tearing them apart looking for the boy, only to have Runa reveal that he had returned to say goodbye, and that he was joining the Dark Brotherhood.

Ysmir was never going to forgive her. Serana couldn't say she would blame her, either.

Two shadows moving up the path caught her attention, and she found herself holding her breath in hope. Could it be? Had the boy decided to return, perhaps dragging his little vampire friend with him? There was hope for Babette, Serana knew. She'd suspected it all along, and the girl had confirmed it when she'd returned to make the antidote for the poison-disease herself, slightly disapproving Shadow Scale in tow.

It was a pair of men. Serana sagged against the rock in disappointment. She truly liked Aventus, and wished better for him than the night world she herself was caged in. He was so very young to be pulled into the shadowed realm of Sithis. She was a vampire and a necromancer, and she wasn't as deep in darkness as he was about to be, a follower of the Void itself.

"Is this it?" asked a familiar voice as they got closer. Serana sat up again, peering at them through the gloom. It was quite foggy, billowing up in wisps and puffs from the cold water of the Karth, but from the faint clank of metal and even fainter whiff of dog, she'd bet her fangs these two weren't Foresworn. Shame about that, really, since she was getting hungry, and was more than eager to tear something apart.

"I believe so," answered another familiar voice, laced with a sadness that hadn't been present before. She wondered if they somehow knew already. The blurry lines of the men grew clearer as they drew near the cave mouth, the features coalescing into those of the werewolf twins Ysmir had collected. She was starting to be able to tell them apart, even when sitting to hide the differences in their height. They were practically identical from the nose up, except for their hairstyles, but she'd noticed that Farkas had fuller lips. Or perhaps Vilkas was always pressing his together in annoyance. It wouldn't surprise her, and it was that realization that allowed her to remember which was which—Farkas always looked like he was about to smile, and Vilkas always looked like he'd just sat on a tack. As she was thinking this, the slightly shorter one halted, drawing his sword and looking around. "Who's there?"

"It's just me," she called, and they both looked up.

"How did you get up there?" Farkas asked as she moved to climb down.

"I flew," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Very funny," Vilkas groused, surprising her by assisting her the rest of the way to the ground. The fog swirled out when she hopped down, then rushed back to curl about their ankles. "What are you doing out here? Aren't you supposed to be inside watching the children? Frothar once challenged me to a dual; I wouldn't put it past him to try to start an insurrection."

Serana could only stare at them both for a long moment, trying to formulate how to tell them. They both tensed. "What's wrong?" Farkas asked worriedly as Vilkas opened his mouth to ask the same.

"Aventus is gone," she finally said.

All the blood drained from their faces. "What do you mean, gone?" Vilkas finally asked tightly. "If that Hag hurt him—" he reached for his sword but halted when Serana shook her head.

"No. Believe it or not, Melka's been a dear. The plan…well, like most of Ysmir's crazier ideas, it actually worked. The children are much better behaved than they were. How they'll be when they get home is anyone's guess but…" she stopped, looking back at the water reflections through the tattered sheets of fog. "There's no easy way to say this. A week ago Aventus disappeared after a Foresworn attack. We know he killed at least one of them. Two nights later he returned while Illia and I were out looking for him. He told Runa…he insinuated that he had somehow made a deal with the Dark Brotherhood, or been given a deal. The severance of the contract on Ysmir's life for his membership."

"No," Vilkas finally managed, rocking back a step as if she had landed a physical blow. The vampire glanced up at them to find them both wearing identical, complex expressions. Fear, dismay, grief…and failure. Exactly what she felt. Serana found herself crying again, and hastily brushed the red droplets from her cheeks.

"I…Melka says no one is to blame," she said, reminding herself as much as telling them. "That it's well known among the Reachmen that one called to Sithis cannot escape the call. She said the god of death has probably been interested in the boy since he performed the Black Sacrament seven years ago." She clasped her hands before her tightly, unable to look at the twins anymore.

"I don't see how that makes anything better!" Vilkas snapped at her.

For once, she didn't snap back. "Neither do I," she admitted, quite in the face of his rage. "All I know is that if I hadn't let him sit out here by himself, even for a few minutes, he would probably still be here." There it was, out in the open. She half expected them to try to kill her after that.

"How could you do that?" Vilkas exploded at her, not reaching for his sword but his eyes flashing yellow, his lips drawing back in a snarl that exposed fangs every bit as impressive as her own. "How could you leave him alone when you knew that little bloodsucker might go looking for him? That the area was rife with Foresworn? What were you _thinking?"_

"Brother," Farkas said as she flinched, putting a hand on his twin's arm. "Foresworn usually don't come down this close to Markarth anymore, that's one of the reasons Ysmir picked this place. It was supposed to be safe from that, at least. And you know he occasionally sneaks off to be by himself. He's gotten out of the house without any of us noticing before. If he really wanted to be out here, there's nothing she really could have done to stop him."

"She could have tried," Vilkas countered, turning away and shrugging Farkas's hand off, the moonslight glinting dully off their armor with the motion, gilding the wolves' heads. "I need to run."

Farkas frowned. "But Kodlak said—"

"If I don't, those children will be more frightened of me than the Hagraven, and with good reason," he spat out, not looking at either of them. He took off before they could respond, vanishing into the white mist faster than Serana would have guessed, leaving it swirling in his wake. Serana fancied that the curls and eddies seemed distressed by his abrupt departure.

The remaining twin sighed, then sank onto a rock outside the door, prepared to wait. In the lambency of the coals that marked the entrance it was nearly impossible to see his eyes other than as silvery gleams in twin black voids, not unlike coals themselves. Even with her night sight, she hadn't a clue what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," Serana finally whispered.

He looked up in surprise and managed a weak grin. "We'll get through this. We get through anything—all of us do. Aventus may be going off to be an assassin now, but he did it for the right reasons. His honor is intact, and if I know anything about that boy, he'll do his damnedest to keep it intact. Don't tell Vil, but I've met one or two retired assassins before, the ones that didn't kill out of love of killing. They spent the rest of their lives making up for what they did, and they lived very honorably. I'll just bet that'll be Aventus one day."

"I hope so," was all she said, remembering the way the boy and the young vampire had looked at each other. It was not out of the question that the girl would turn him. She wouldn't dash Farkas's hope, though.

"Then again," the werewolf added with such a droll tone she started in surprise, "I wouldn't put it past Ysmir to know exactly where they hole up. I've never punched my way into an assassin's guild before. Sounds like fun."

After the moment or two it took for her to realize that he was serious, Serana smiled slightly and shook her head, impressed with his audaciousness. "Is he going to be alright?" she asked, nodding into the gloom after Vilkas.

Farkas shrugged. "He's been through a bit lately. Sit down, if you'd like. I'll tell you what's been going on on our end of things."

.

* * *

.

Frothar was curled up behind Runa when the noise started. She'd started sleeping with the group, and out of courtesy the boys let the girls sleep closer to the fire pit since the nights were so cold there was frost on the rock walls every morning. He was very careful not to lie too close to her when they went to sleep, but by morning they tended to be piled all over each other like a basket of kittens; it was a wonder no one had woken up in the firepit yet. Runa had spent the last few nights crying quietly, but so had Dagny, so it wasn't an unaccustomed sound. He'd understood well enough why Runa was crying, but he wasn't sure why Dagny was so sniffly, unless she was scared or just still whining about her hands. If he hadn't finally seen the things for himself when Lars changed the bandages he would have suspected she was faking to get out of work.

Still, she had turned out to be a surprisingly good cook.

Runa sat bolt upright, from sleeping to waking in an instant as the noise grew nearer. Nelkir was next up, looking around blearily and bumping into Dagny, which woke her with a little mew of protest. Braith pushed what looked suspiciously like Lars's arm off her with a blush, turning over to shake him awake. "Something's happening," she whispered.

"By Stendarr you won't leave here alive!" a man yelled somewhere out in the keep, making all the children jump and look at each other with wide eyes. "For Jorrvaskr, and Whiterun!" another, similar voice hollered. Some loud booms followed, with cries and what sounded like the Hag shrieking. It moved away quickly and a woman ran in with lightning and frost dancing along her fingers, wearing strange armor he'd never seen before, her hair pulled back from her lovely face by four braids.

"Are you all alright?" she asked as he stumbled to his feet. Rescue at last!

"We're fine," Braith said solemnly. "What's left of us, anyway."

"You've come for all of us, right?" Lars asked worriedly, taking Braith's hand. "You aren't just here for the Jarl's children?"

"They're taking all of us regardless," Frothar all but growled.

The woman gazed at him with some surprise, and then smiled with sympathy as the commotion finally stopped and two burly warriors in familiar armor strode in. Companions. Their father had hired _Companions_ to come get them! Frothar began to smile at Nelkir and Dagny, about to point out to his brother that Balgruuf evidently did care, when Runa suddenly launched herself at the warrior stepping forward. _"Papa!"_ she shrieked, flinging her arms around him and sobbing.

The man looked taken aback. "Runa!" he exclaimed, his arms coming around her. He ushered her out the door before the other children could do more than gape.

Nelkir glanced up at Frothar's poleaxed face and gave a little shrug. "I guess she had a better chance of joining the Companions than we thought."

.

* * *

.

Vilkas wasn't entirely sure what to do. Runa was normally so stoical, but here she was, bawling into his breastplate, and just like with Ysmir he had no idea how to make things better. Perhaps there was nothing he could do. For the second time in as many weeks, he simply held a loved one while they sobbed their heart out, praying for guidance to any of the gentler Divines that would listen because he sure as Oblivion didn't know what to do.

"He's gone," she finally rasped out, face still turned to his chest.

"I know," Vilkas replied, kissing the top of her head lightly, his own eyes moister than he was used to. He wouldn't cry, though. He wasn't sure how Runa would react, and he didn't want to burden her more than she already was. Also, he was sure Serana would have a few mocking words if he came back with his warpaint running like a courtesan's eye kohl. That woman's wit was sharp as Skyforged Steel when she wanted it to be.

"He…he didn't want to become an assassin anymore!" she burst out, surprising him with the idea that the boy had ever wanted to be one in the first place (then again, considering how Ysmir had met him, perhaps it wasn't that surprising). "He," she hiccupped, "he was thinking about joining the Companions with me. I…I'm trying to be brave, and I told myself I wouldn't cry, but…but…Gods, Papa, I'm so _angry_ at him! I'm furious and…and I'm sad, and I miss him and I'm _never going to see him again!" _Her words prompted a fresh spate of tears.

"Shh," he soothed, just holding her. "It's alright, Runa. Well, not at the moment, but it will be. You can cry all you need."

She stopped, pushing back a little, and his heart broke all over again to see her tear-streaked face. "But I'm supposed to be a Companion," she said, confusing him slightly, "I'm supposed to be strong, no matter what. I should be condemning him for what he's done, not blubbering because he chose to leave us all behind!"

Vilkas frowned, leading her over to a bench and drawing her down to it as he sat, pushing what looked nauseatingly like a severed skeever's tail out of the way. "Runa," he said seriously, "Being a Companion—being strong—does not mean that you cannot feel sorrow. Being sad is not the same as being weak. Some of us express our emotions differently. Aela and I often throw ourselves into our work when something gets to us, but it doesn't mean we don't feel. Emotions can be another kind of strength, if you let them." He leaned forward, wiping a new tear away with as reassuring a smile as he could summon. "Cry, Runa, if you need to. We won't think less of you, and we don't think less of him for doing what he felt he needed, even if the path is one we wouldn't have chosen for him to take."

That brought on another bout of weeping, which Vilkas held her through again, hoping he'd said the right things. Finally, the tears dried up, and she pulled away all on her own, rubbing at her eyes and giving him a chance to dry his own cheeks. He'd just have to hope the vampire didn't notice. "Is it safe to go home now?" she asked, and he winced inwardly.

"Not to Lakeview," he said carefully. "You'll be at Jorrvaskr for a while."

"Is that dirty old man still looking for me?" she asked tiredly, giving a little shudder.

"He's dead," Vilkas said shortly, and at her alarmed look, hastily added, "He summoned a Daedra and…apparently offended him."

"Oh," she said, eyebrows high in surprise. Thankfully, she didn't ask any more questions, just rose to her feet and pushed her hair back. "Well, I should probably go celebrate with the others that rescue came, even if…well. I still have a job to do."

He smiled, feeling very proud of this future Companion. "That you do."

They paused as the familiar shuffling and ragged breathing of the Hagraven filled the tunnel lined with crumbing bricks that passed as a hallway in this Aedra-forsaken place. Melka walked up and Vilkas tensed, but Runa actually smiled and gave the smelly old thing a hug. "Goodbye, Melka," she said.

"Take care of yourself, nibble," the Hag said affectionately, tapping the girl on the nose with a claw. "Remember to visit sometime. And bring some eyes. Or a goat. I always have use for a goat."

"Er…Alright?" Runa promised, looking uncertain again.

The Hag chuckled as they watched her go. "Nice little Breton," she said.

"Runa's a Nord," Vilkas informed her, watching her skeptically.

"Humans are humans," the Hag waved a claw dismissively, then eyed him measuringly. "That was well done, wolf. Between you and Big Boy, she should get over this aversion she has to proper grieving." With that, the Hag turned and began shuffling off, not wanting the children to see her and give the game away. This had been both amusing and lucrative for her. In fact, she was contemplating doing it again.

The Companion watched her for a few moments, feeling relieved to see the last of her, when it hit him just what she had said. "Wait, 'Big Boy'?" he echoed, feeling a stirring of proprietary alarm.

"Vil?" Farkas asked, sticking his head in. "Time to go."

"Right," Vilkas said, turning back to him and striding determinedly to the door. "Farkas, we may be returning to Whiterun minus a Jarl's son."

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* * *

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Darva looked out over the Sanctuary, fiddling idly with the manacle firmly looped around her ankle. They hadn't wanted to chain her up, but after the fourth time she had tried to run away, Delphine had reluctantly given the order. If she was good and did as she was told, she might be allowed to see Alesan soon. She had no idea where he was, other than some place they called "camp," which was outside the cave. The woman minding her said the place had been lovely when they first got there. Darva didn't doubt it; shafts of sunlight cut through the darkness from large, uneven holes in the roof, illuminating green grass and a bubbling stream, and the big tree on the far side was enough to make even a normal, rocky cave pretty. It wouldn't be for much longer with what the Blades were doing, though.

She sighed, absently scratching Dovahzul in the dirt beside where she sat. The woman had tried to get her to read a book, but it was in Tamrielic and Darva was nowhere near as good at Tamrielic as she was at Dovahzul. Still…she pulled the book to her again, deciding to practice, for want of anything better to do. What with them forcing a potion down her throat to keep her from Shouting, she couldn't even sing to pass the time.

Out in the cave, the skeletons of two dragons were slowly being unearthed.

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**Hi, people! Life is getting chaotic again. We're getting a house guest for the summer so the entire house is being rearranged. Except for the kitchen-that's mostly bolted to the floor. Other than that, still unemployed and considering taking up art commissions. Except I don't want to take them on then suddenly get hired and not have time to do them. It's a conundrum.**

**Over a hundred people a day have looked at this since last week (except for Sunday, which was more than made up for by Tuesday, with well over two hundred views)! **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome, new followers and favorites! **

**afeleon276: You're re-reading the entire thing? Wow. That's like...311 pages, Word format, single spaced. How did this story even get that long? Anywhoosle; thanks. I'm glad I write a good Sheo. :D**

**Wynni: She wasn't still standing, if you noticed; they both fell right over. XD Of course, that had more to do with nearly drowning than lip-locking. Kissing and getting oxygen from someone are fairly different sensations. I'm glad you liked the chapter. ^_^ It's one of my favorites.**

**Msmusicful: Welcome! I'm glad you appreciate their weird bonding. :D It is most fun to write.**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Things are no fun when a character can just wave a hand and solve all their problems. I take great glee in thwarting them. I'm glad you like that Miraak is Atmoran. I headcannon that that's where his accent comes from, not just lingual shift. As for meeting ****Gelabor, sadly he has no reason to. Even if they did, Snow Elves and Atmorans have terrible history. Or perhaps that's what you were getting at.**

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**Next Week: Ysmir and Miraak face the Destruction Maze, which, counter to expectations, gives them an uncomfortable amount of time to talk. **

**Feedback question: What do you guys thing about the interactions between the characters here? **


	64. Chapter 64: Destruction

Ysmir shook her head, both in disbelief and to flick her hair out of her eyes. She couldn't believe she was traipsing about Labyrinthian with Miraak, of all people. But there he was, in all his insufferable glory, mask and all. Her fingers itched to swipe it off and throw it over the walls, but he was tetchy enough as it was. Still, she could imagine his face underneath it, probably scowling in irritation or with that thoughtful frown. Of its own accord her hand began to reach to see, to take that idiot mask and reveal what was beneath, but she snatched it back hastily. It would only be worse if she could see.

"Hold," he cautioned, peeking around a corner. Sure enough, an ice storm moved to envelope the corner beyond them. He sighed; they'd been following the path through the Destruction maze for what felt like hours, and he was plainly tired of this whole affair. Vexingly, it seemed only his patience was wearing thin; he didn't seem to be physically tiring at all, even though she was more than ready to stop and at least eat something. "Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?"

"Be my guest," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "I despise ice magic."

Miraak muttered something about it being because she was such a hothead before he stepped out into the corridor just after another frosty explosion. _"Fus Ro Dah!"_

All the trapped soul gems lining the corridor fell over in their stands, the spells that had activated at his appearance petering out and making this entire part of the maze moot. Ysmir wasn't sure exactly what they were going to find when they entered the Destruction part of Shalidor's Maze, but corridors full of soul gem traps wasn't it. According to Miraak, it meant they were on the right path. He'd pointed to faint symbols etched high up on every corner representing the element of that corridor, so high up she never would have noticed them on her own, and could barely see over the rim of their own indentations. Ysmir added "favoring tall people" to her list of grievances with Shalidor. Following those symbols, they defeated one section and moved to the next. Fire spells had led to Lightning, and now to Frost; every element needed to start with the gauntlet of soul gems, then end with another path strewn with runes. All other paths apparently led to pitfalls, deathtraps and dead ends, but she was taking his word on that. The corridors in between the two were bad enough.

"So the next corridor should be runes, then," she supposed, telling herself to stop admiring the way he Shouted. Being Dragonborn certainly had its perks down here—it would have taken forever to knock those things over one by one from behind a ward, as was apparently the point. From hand-height, they were sheltered by the one before them from oncoming spells. Shouts, being more powerful and coming from a slightly higher point, bypassed that.

At least, they did coming from Miraak. Once again, it seemed Shalidor was favoring tall people, even accidentally. Stupid, bloody Nords.

"If it sticks to pattern," he agreed. "I wouldn't let my guard down, though."

"Do I ever?" Ysmir asked without thinking.

Miraak turned abruptly, flicking her in the center of her forehead before she knew what he was about. "Yes," he replied, chuckling as she scowled and rubbed at the place he had hit.

"Point taken," she ground out, and he nodded curtly, turning to continue winding his way through the soul gem stands. Ysmir grinned after a moment, noting several subtle changes in his carriage. He was waiting for her to retaliate, probably wanting to make a point about how he, at least, was paying attention. Rather than indulge him, she pulled out a roll stuffed with venison sausage that she could eat without stopping, giving him a sweet smile and offering him some when he finally turned his head to look back at her. He was even more tense after that.

They walked on for what felt like hours, fighting off bound creatures and navigating puzzle traps as they followed the path Miraak had traced out through the maze in that book, occasionally making a snide comment under his breath while she seethed at him, and why hadn't she just killed him in Apocrypha, honestly? Several times Ysmir was strongly tempted to tell him to take himself back to Oblivion, but the truth was that after seeing the sheer scope of this maze she didn't know if she'd be able to find her way out in any reasonable amount of time without him, and…she'd missed him.

The thought, bubbling up from her subconscious like an admission of guilt, stopped her in her tracks. This was ridiculous. He was _not_ a good man, she reminded herself firmly. Even if he had been once, he'd enslaved an entire island just to get what he wanted, and still showed no remorse for his actions. He was not someone she could afford to have these feelings for, for her children's sake if not her own. But it was getting worse the longer she was with him, with every fight they fought beside each other rather than against, with every keen observation or strategy. Every time he listened to what tentative plans she had for defeating Shalidor's Maze, or asked her opinion on his own, it got worse.

He was treating her like an equal. Of all the things she had expected from this arrogant ass, that wasn't one of them. After all the lording it over her in Apocrypha that he was so much older and more knowledgeable than her, he was still deferring to her opinion, even actively seeking it out. There was no belittling her power, nothing like an outright challenge, but she still felt as if he were testing her strength, and as if he were pleased with it. That irked her like nothing else. She would almost prefer a fight to this set of subtle challenges, or an attempt at one of his mind games. Unless this too was a mind game, which she couldn't entirely count out, either.

She glared at his retreating form, for he hadn't noticed her sudden halt. However, once behind him her gaze traveled south of its own volition, but she snapped her eyes shut when she realized what she was doing, taking a deep breath. She had to get it together. There were dammed traps everywhere for one thing, and despite her attempts at being indifferent, he was being so asinine she just wanted to throw him against the wall and punch him repeatedly. Or he could throw her against a wall…there were a lot of walls to have fun with in a maze…

"Ysmir…" Miraak said tightly, then cleared his throat. He had turned, and his body language was uncertain, for once. She wasn't sure when she had opened her eyes, either. "If you keep looking at me like that, we'll have yet another delay on our hands."

"Like what?" she asked, voice so husky she barely recognized it. She felt so warm she almost checked for her Flame Cloak.

He growled. "You know what you're doing, woman!" he spat, turning and putting distance between them.

Ysmir took a deep, calming breath of the frigid air, collecting her thoughts. They didn't have time to dally, she reminded herself. And she didn't want the complication of giving in to the urge of running her fingers over the scar Hermaeus Mora had given him, of tracing the edge of the dragon scales on his face or watching his expression as he—

"Dammit!" she growled, stomping after him before she lost him in this Aedra-forsaken maze. What was it about the man that made her take leave of her senses? She was a grown-assed woman, not a mooning teenager or a territorial dragon: She could damn well act like a civilized adult around him while keeping her hands to herself and not picking a fight!

Except the only time they had been around each other without there being violence or sex involved was when she had taken Odahviing to see him, and then she had beat a hasty retreat to go sit in the snow, even though she had really, really wanted to know what they were talking about. After that she had just been too angry, and then frightened…Ysmir glanced up. He had stopped to wait for her, his posture once again very collected and in control. He liked being in control. Needed it as much as she did, she thought. She found it supremely ironic that being together was the very antithesis of control for both of them.

"So…" she began haltingly, hopping off the last tile of a corridor lined with pressure plates decorated with snowflakes. It might have been pretty had stepping on any but the one identical with the tiny little frost symbols nearly too high to see not sent one falling to certain death, or sent ice spikes shooting through the walls, or something similar. They were slippery to boot. "Why did you decide to come along, anyway?"

He gazed down at her measuringly for a moment before glancing away, up at either side of the corridor they had exited. The right side was stamped with the snowflake symbol, the left with a jagged line representing lightning. They'd be heading right this time. "You have a lot of skill, Ysmir, but this was our Capitol, back in the reign of dragons. The Council met here, and when the Dragon Cult went to ground they sealed this place up so that even the most prepared defilers would meet their end. Even you would be hard pressed to survive on your own, even if you had found your way out of the maze unscathed." Miraak glanced back down, unsurprised to see he had insulted her again.

"Miraak, I didn't know you cared," she stated sarcastically, giving up on indifference entirely and glaring at him in raw challenge. Oh, gods, he could not deal with her challenging him right now—had been doing his best to avoid it, in fact. It was hard enough to keep his hands off her as it was, and they'd done nothing but argue since they'd entered the maze—or perhaps that was largely the problem. He wished he understood why he liked fighting with her so much, although if he had to guess, it was because she wouldn't let him do anything else. She'd shut down any attempts at conversation that weren't immediately about the maze.

He turned, returning to counting the openings on the right hand side, eyes flickering upward until a snowflake symbol appeared and studiously avoiding the circular plates in the floor. To his annoyance, Ysmir seemed to be able to tread all over them without setting them off. She had to jog to catch up with him, which gave him a little satisfaction at least. "I'm not so heartless that I would let the mother of my child go walking into almost certain death without any help, no matter how stubborn and reckless said woman was."

"Aedra preserve me, first Vilkas and now you! I am not reckless!" she protested, actually stomping on the nearest pressure plate in vexation. It still didn't go off. "Why do you care? You don't even know Darva."

Miraak stopped so abruptly she skid passed him on some ice, and he had to reach out and grasp her arm, steadying her. She stiffened at his touch, suddenly very thankful for the layers of cloth, chain, and leather between his skin and hers. "I'd thank you not to compare me to your werewolf," he ground out. "I care because she's mine; my kin, my blood. Even if you prefer that I never knew of her existence. I wouldn't see her orphaned as I was: She deserves better than that."

She gaped at him and he released her as if she had burst into flames, stepping around her quickly and striding to the next corner, where he turned. Damn the woman! Maybe it was a good thing he almost never saw her if his tongue was going to turn traitor every time she was around!

Of course…there were other ways to keep his tongue busy…

The Daedric Prince of Forbidden Knowledge nearly tripped over his own feet at that unexpected thought. Ysmir caught up and gave him a questioning look, but there was neither scorn nor pity there, so he let it go. "Ice," he lied, but she nodded, looking as if she was feeling as uncertain as he was.

"Well, at least—why is the floor covered with snow?" she asked abruptly, frowning down at the ground, then looking above. Only the stone ceiling of the maze met her gaze, unbroken and dark, save for one spot that might either be a tree root or a draugr leg. "Where did it come from?"

Miraak frowned, then shot a firebolt at the ground. A Frost Rune exploded upwards. "Hidden runes," he said rhetorically, then gave her a sideways look. "I thought you had trouble with the cold?"

"Don't ask," she muttered, not wanting to even try to explain how her blood seemed to heat her from the veins out whenever he was around—and it apparently got worse with continued exposure. Unbidden, Odahviing's comments bubbled to the surface of her mind, that dragons fought before they paired. She blushed, aware that Miraak was watching, and took her frustration out on the corridor, Shouting fire as far as she could. The corridor flashed red with a hiss, the snow vaporizing to steam instantly.

"Impressive," Miraak noted—somewhat grudgingly—as the wall at the far end actually rocked under the onslaught before the wisps of white vapor swirled in to hide it. "I take it a dragon taught you that one personally?"

"Paarthurnax," she confirmed, noting how his shoulders tensed slightly at the name. "How could you tell?"

"The _thu'um_ is always stronger when taught by a master, and there are no greater masters than dragons," he said simply, beginning down the steam-filled hall. "That was the last Destructive Element. We should be coming back to the opening soon."

"Thank goodness," she muttered. Something made a strange, rustling hiss behind her, and she whirled instinctively, being thrown off-balance by one of the largest Ice Wraiths she had ever seen. It darted forward, icy jaws snapping shut so close to her arm its teeth got caught in the rings of her chainmail. Ysmir snarled at it, slashing upward with her dagger and throwing up her flame cloak as it uttered its peculiar, gurgling cry and darted back into the mists, taking a few rings from her sleeve with it. She hated Ice Wraiths—mostly because they were as fast as she was, and blended right into the places they called home. The steam hid the creature as effectively as snow, and she put her back to the wall to keep it from flanking her, looking around. Miraak reappeared quickly, sword out. "What is it?" he asked.

"Ice Wraith," she told him, "big one."

He shrugged, "Considering how long it's been down here it's had a long time to grow. Face back the way we came, I'll face forward, and we'll both use Fire Breath. There are no branching corridors, so it will have nowhere to hide."

"Sounds like a plan," she confirmed, putting her back against his. "Count of three?"

In response he started counting, and they both Shouted toward either end of the corridor, rocking the maze with their combined _thu'um._ The mist burned away, and the Ice Wraith shrieked its death somewhere behind her, but rubble rained down on them, pelting them with dirt and bits of root. Miraak held a ward over them until the place settled. A few rocks tumbled off the top of the wall before him.

Ysmir looked back at him, somehow feeling giddy from what they had just done. She had never Shouted with someone else before. It was a bit exhilarating. "As fun as that was…"

"…Let's refrain from doing it again," he finished, experiencing that same breathless glee. "At least, in here." He glanced upward, "Last thing we need is for the whole ceiling to come down on us."

The comment chilled her as nothing else had, even nearly drowning. The thought of being trapped under all that rock…having it press in on all sides, touching her, scratching at her as she tried to claw her way out—

"Are you alright?" he asked, a frown evident in his voice.

Ysmir shook her head to clear it. "Fine," she lied, then added when he crossed his arms, "The thought of being buried alive is a bit much, even for me." She would much rather have died in the Alteration test. At least then it would already be over with. "Let's head on, shall we?" she asked, forcing a light tone. Miraak regarded her from behind his inscrutable mask for a moment before stepping aside, waving one hand as if to say "After you."

They turned the next corner, and there was the exit.

The Dragonborn heaved a sigh of relief as they left the maze, "Two down," she said.

"Three to go," he reminded her, sounding bleak. She didn't blame him; that Alteration test had shaken them both.

"What's the next part?" she asked, following as he made his way around the maze to the second entrance.

_"'Illusion shows the way to Restoration,'"_ he quoted.

"You didn't even have to look at the book," she observed, jogging a little to catch up. It was a damned good thing she ran everywhere, even if it did bother Inigo. It was the only thing letting her keep up with the stupidly tall Atmoran.

"No," he agreed. "I remember everything I read. I always have. The only reason I grabbed the book at all was to traverse the maze."

Ysmir nibbled her lip pensively, stopping immediately when he started staring. "So all those books in Apocrypha…you didn't even get to re-read them to ease your boredom?"

He snorted. "I try to talk about things and you throw rocks at me, but if you have a question it's fine?" he groused.

She flushed. He had a point. "You were joking around. This isn't a pleasure trip."

Miraak halted altogether. "No, it's not," he said, and she wondered if he were glaring at her, "but you can't deny that you're enjoying yourself."

She gaped at him. "I am not!" she sputtered.

"Don't try to lie to me, Dragonborn; you've been bored. You live for challenge, thrive upon it. Even dragons will leave their lairs to fly with a storm; I am no different, and neither are you."

Ysmir glanced down, considering. He was right; despite being worried to death about her children and trying her damnedest to make herself despise Miraak again, there was a part of her that was thrilled with the danger, the excitement. She took a deep breath and stared up into the eyeslits of his mask. "Don't assume you know me just because we're both Dragonborn," she said firmly, turning to walk away. After the first two trials she was more than ready for a rest, and while this was the perfect opportunity, she would much rather head on to the next trial than have this conversation.

"And how am I supposed to know you, Ysmir?" he replied as he followed, his voice a soft rumble, "You've made it perfectly apparent that you want me nowhere near you. I can understand you, however—probably better than anyone else who walks this land. The part of you that longs to soar the skies with the rest of the _dov; _that fearless, restless part that keeps searching for something, even after you think you've found it. What I don't understand is why."

Halting with her hand on the entrance to the Illusion Trial, Ysmir closed her eyes, facing away from him. She shouldn't ask, she really shouldn't. "Why what?"

"Why you want me nowhere near you," he elaborated. "You were once willing to help me leave Apocrypha—then you never returned, not even to see if I lived. We share a child, but you kept her very existence a secret from me. We three are the only _Dovahkiinne_ in the world, yet you can barely stand to look at me," he stated, anger twining around each word. "Why?"

"We don't have time for this," she stated, heading into the maze.

"Ysmir—" he called out, his tone dangerous as he reached for her—but the moment he entered the maze behind her, the world went black.

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**Hey, everybody! I hope you are all well. :) I lost a turtle yesterday. Looked all over the house for hours. Turned out he was hiding under the fish tank in the art room, the grumpy little shit. He hissed at me. But now he's all nice and cozy in his newly cleaned tank.**

**So, I don't know if any of you are on Tumblr, but I am, and I keep watching these other people talk to their followers about their OCs and I'm feeling completely left out. I'm of the "brainstorm about OCs for hours" school of writing. So, anyway, if you ever want to chat about Ysmir, Miraak, or any of them-or just about lore or something-feel free to message me on arette - design dot tumbr dot com. :D I also put my artwork up there from time to time, if you wanted to see what some of these people look like. I freely admit to being needy about this, because I talk to literally no one offline about my stuff unless my old roomie happens to be around (hi!), and everyone else disapproves of me writing fanfiction. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! We had 229 people view last Thursday! :D Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Wynni: Lol. "Poppa Powers" and "Dayscare." Vilkas realizing who "Big Boy" was had more to do with the only other boys being Lars and Nelkir, who are hardly very big. XD I loved writing about him getting all huffy papa, though. Serana is feeling very guilty, but luckily Farkas tends to gloss over all the complicated stuff and get right to the heart of the matter, which in this case is that Serana is a good person and shouldn't feel bad. I believe that Farkas is a genuinely nice guy, and doesn't like to see people hurting. Melka was really fun to write; I'll actually miss her. While Miraak does enjoy being close to Ysmir, I think he would vastly prefer different circumstances. **

**afeleon276: *eyes get all big and watery* You recommended me? *glomp!* Good long talk begun, then postponed. Silly Ysmir and her silly avoidance. Melka is several shades of awesome, and needs more love. Only Moira deserves more. **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I kind of get Miraak, but what do you have against poor ****Gelabor?**

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**Next Week: A slightly confusing chapter with some hallucinations and a bit of fire. Can't have fire without hallucinations, huh? _HUH?_ **

**Sheo, go back to the epilogue! **

**BUT MY ADORING PUBLIC NEEDS ME!**

**They want Rommy, not necessarily you...**

**BUT WE'RE THE SAME PERSON! **

**And you're probably getting your own short story. Shoo! **

**WATCH IT, GIRL! I STILL NEED A NEW SKIPPING ROPE!**

**Toys'R'Us is that way. I think I saw Dagon's car in the parking lot.**

**DAGON, _HA!_ HA HA HA HA _HA!_ FETCHER. **


	65. Chapter 65: Fury and Fear

He ran through the twists and turns of the never-ending halls, stumbling and near-blind with terror. No. He couldn't be back here, he just couldn't, but the grim light, the floating pages, the ever-changing pathways that twisted nauseatingly as they stretched on to infinity didn't lie. Miraak fell against one of the walls of books, which teetered slightly, threatening to cascade the tomes down upon him.

"Herma-Mora!" he thundered, hand holding his wounded side. "Where are you, you lying bastard?"

The words echoed across the vast black ocean, making pages tremble. Nothing happened. The Dragon Priest looked down at his hands as he sank to the floor. "I should be dead," he muttered, turning his hand over to watch the blood glisten as dully as the ink. "Why aren't I dead?"

"I saved you," the Daedra drawled, unfolding into existence above him. The eye blinked lazily at him, but there was a sharpness about its gaze that set Miraak on edge.

He struggled to his feet. "You fiend! I did everything you wanted, and still you betrayed me."

"Hmmm…" Herma-Mora mused, "I pulled you from under the blade of your enemy and this is the thanks I get?" A dozen eyes emerged from the abys behind the main eye, all gazing down at him reprovingly. Glistening tentacles dipped in and out of existence, their slow writhing almost hypnotic as they seemed to move outside of time with elongated movements, disappearing and reappearing with a beckoning, curling motion.

"You informed Vahlok of my plans!" Miraak snapped. "You sent me to my death then denied me Sovngarde! This was not our deal. I did what you wanted, and I pledged to serve you until death!"

The eyes narrowed in satisfaction. "Exactly," he purred.

Miraak felt his breath catch in his throat, cold dread settling over him. He licked blood off his lip, wanting to ask what the Daedra meant, but not wanting to hear his suspicions confirmed.

"You pledged to serve me until death, Dragon Priest, but it is I who shall determine when you die. I have…hmmm…quite enjoyed having you as my servant. I would not wish to feel bereft of your company." If the Gardener of Men had possessed a mouth, it would have been smirking.

"Damn you!" Miraak roared, wincing as his wounds sent pain shooting through him. "Let me die!"

The Daedra withdrew slightly, the whirling blackness pausing as the tentacles drew upwards, away from him. "I saved your life," he finally said in his slow, strangely lilting voice, "You should be grateful. I was going to heal your wounds and send you back to Nirn with some tasks, but now I think I shall have to wait until you're in a more…hmm…_accommodating_ frame of mind." With that, the Daedra began pulling back into a pinprick space, slowly and swiftly disappearing from view.

"Come back here!" Miraak growled, lunging forward only to fall to his knees as pain assailed him anew.

Mora's voice chuckled darkly around him, making the air tremble. "Resign yourself, Dragonborn. You shall remain forever in my realm, until Alduin devours the world and the end of days arrives. You may fight me all you like, but _I shall break you._ You will never escape me…"

Terror battered him from every side. Eternity in this…this hell? Until Alduin destroyed the world and came for the souls of the dead? Why didn't he stop the Black Dragon when he had the chance? Why hadn't he listened to Felldir when he told him it was dangerous to turn from the destiny assigned to him? If he hadn't run from that, he wouldn't be here now. The Elder Scroll stated that a _dovah_ trapped in a human body would destroy the World Eater, and here he was, just such a person, though such a thing was thought inconceivable, even perverse. He wondered if the Scroll itself would change, if there would be another, now that he had so foolishly trapped himself here—

_ —A flash of memory accompanied that thought. A woman with bright red hair, staring down at him with a dagger in her hand, strange , slightly tilted eyes like an elf's round with surprise.—_

Miraak staggered to his feet, frowning. The pain was lessening. Mora's sinister laughter still reverberated around him, but he shook his head, trying to clear it. Something was wrong. This... "This already happened," he realized, gazing around him. A memory? Why? What had brought forth a memory so strongly that it was as if he was reliving it?

Terror lanced through him again, and Apocrypha faded.

.

* * *

.

He looked down at the Sanctuary beneath the Eldergleam, tears coursing down his cheeks. The Sisters lay in pools of their own blood, dun-colored robes stained with it. They hadn't had a chance against those that came for them, who had slaughtered them and Jerbodun and Hahnu. He'd never seen a dragon die before, had never heard of mortals killing them. The Priests were lying; dragons could be as mortal as anyone else when faced with an axe. Barely eleven years old, and he now knew the biggest secret of the dragons. He somehow doubted he'd make it to twelve.

Numbly, he left the protection of the Tree, walking amongst the corpses of those that had been his friends and protectors for the last few years. His vision grew bleary as he approached the dragons. Hahnu had been so close. Seven years carrying her baby, she had but three to wait until it emerged. Now it never would.

The boy sobbed, stumbling against the cold, slick side of Hahnu's birthing sister, Jerbodun. She had never really liked him much, but she had been civil enough, and amazed at his ability to learn their language. Even under the Great Paarthurnax's tutelage, the Dragon Priests still took years to master the Tongue. Hahnu had been so proud of him.

Jerbodun began to glow, and he staggered backwards, hope making him breathless. Was this the way dragons healed themselves? Was she about to rise, none the worse for wear after her battle? The hopeful look fell from the child's face, replaced with horror as the body began to burn, turning to bones in moments as a bright, whirling essence rose up like a wraith from snow. It hovered in the air for a moment as he gaped.

Then it started toward him.

He screamed in terror, trying to flee, but the light caught him, surrounded him, sank into him. He gasped, euphoria such as he had never known sweeping through him, then crashing him back down to reality. Finding himself staring at the ceiling of the cavern gulping air as if he had nearly drowned, he realized that he could still feel it, a tiny spark inside his mind. All he could think was that somehow he had trapped Jerbodun's soul inside him when it should have gone to the afterlife.

The boy rolled onto his side and was sick.

A thought occurred to him and he scrambled to his feet, moving as far from Hahnu's body as he could. Jerbodun had been an accident, but he wouldn't risk the making the same mistake with Hahnu and the little one. He looked away from the blood-splattered face of the dragon, tears blurring her to a golden smear that thankfully erased the rivulets of red. Above him, the Earth Mother that guarded the Eldergleam gazed down at him for a moment before vanishing into the tree. There was nothing more for him here. There was nothing for him anywhere.

He stumbled outside, wondering what kind of strange creature he was. He had devoured a dragon's soul! Blasphemy! Heresy! He was some sort of abomination, he was sure. Cursed. He'd always been cursed.

"Meric…"

He froze, then rushed forward, skidding to a halt next to the dying priestess. "Sister…" should he tell her?

"Meric," she coughed, flecks of blood foaming at the corners of her mouth as her breath hitched and rattled in her lungs, her eyes already glazing over, "Go. Tell Paarthurnax…Alduin betrayed…" she died, but she had gotten out what she needed.

He stared at her. Him? Talk to the brother of the Dragon God? That was…that was insanity!

What if he knew? The boy's heart started to pound as he sat back on his heels. What if Paarthurnax took one look at him and knew him for the abomination that he was? He would be executed, just like those that had challenged the Dragon Priests. Except he had done worse than talk out of turn, he had _eaten a dragon's soul._ A dragon he knew. A dragon that had trusted him.

His death was going to be extraordinarily painful, he just knew it.

"You there, boy!" someone yelled, and he jumped as he was forcibly spun about by a soldier. Beyond him, a Dragon Priest sat astride a horse, gazing his way behind the narrowed eyes of her mask. "What are you doing? What happened here?"

"Paarthurnax," he croaked, mind so numb with dread he wasn't even thinking. He was a lowly orphan—the name of such an exalted being should never grace his thoughts, let alone pass his lips. "The priestess said I had to tell Paarthurnax."

The reaction was instant. There was a shuffling as people shifted in outrage, and the soldier's face darkened, his hand pulled back to strike the boy, when the Priest's voice called out. "Wait." Her voice was low and commanding, so assured it should never even occur to someone to disobey her.

Meric winced as the man grabbed a handful of his short golden curls and pulled him over to the Priest's horse, forcing him into a kneeling position. "What is your name, boy?" she asked coldly.

This was it; the Priest must know, they knew everything. He was almost relieved; if he died, he would never have to face the Great Paarthurnax. "Miraak," he said, then frowned. "Miraak," he said again, looking up as he wondered where the word had come from. His eyes widened even as his heart continued its terrified drumming. "Miraak. That's right. I'm Miraak. And I wasn't afraid of you," he said to the woman, who continued to look down at him from behind her mask, everything around them frozen in place. "I was resigned."

Lifting a hand, he cast Courage, dispelling the Fear that had plagued him. The vision shattered like a mirror, bits of it falling visibly around him before turning to dust on the floor. He looked about, trying to get his bearings. The walls of Shalidor's Maze rose around him, rough stone crumbling in some places, worn smooth in others. He had no idea how long he had been threading his way through it, and no idea where he was. Turning, he looked back behind him, shakily pulling his mask off to wipe at his sweat-dampened face, sweeping his hair back. Aetherius only knew what Ysmir was thinking…

Miraak frowned, turning. "Ysmir?" he called. Nothing. Eyes widening, he cursed, then, placing his right hand on the wall, began running.

.

* * *

.

"Let me out!" she screamed, her voice hoarse with sobbing. "Please let me out!"

"Don't beg," Faloniril instructed absently. "Begging is beneath you."

The girl groaned, sliding down to the bottom of the box. She couldn't see anything, but wasn't sure if that were worse or not. If she could not see the walls of her prison, she could still feel them pressing in on her. "I can't do it," she whispered.

Out in the room, a book snapped shut, and her heart started thundering. He'd heard her. Oh, gods, he'd heard her. Footsteps approached the box, calm and measured, as he was. "You can't do what, my dear?" he asked, his voice dangerously crisp.

She swallowed. "I can't beg," she replied, licking her dry lips. "I have to remember not to." She wanted to, though. She would take the lowliest position in the house if she was spared this mission. They would never let her, though. In her veins ran the blood of the Altmer, diluted as it was by her Nord father and Imperial grandmother; she would never be allowed to debase it by working side-by-side with the Bosmer and Khajiit—or worse, human—servants and slaves that filled the lowest ranks.

"Good girl," he said, a smile in his voice as he patted the box. "Now are you going to do as we've instructed?"

Fresh tears leaked down her cheeks. If he opened the box and saw them he'd probably just shut her back inside until she learned to control herself. "I…I don't know how," she finally admitted. "If you wanted his dispatches, or for his horses to go missing…I'm not trained in this," she finished, her terror plain.

Faloniril snorted. "You've been raised in an Altmer household, girl, not some human backwater. You have better manners than any three human nobles put together."

"I'm meant for sabotage!" she finally burst out. "It's what you always said I would be! It's why you bred me! I…I don't know how to…to interact with…I can't be someone's…I'm not trained for that!"

The box creaked around her as her grandfather leaned against it. She felt her heart speed up as the walls seemed to close in even more. "You're right; I did breed you to run interference for us, but that's not what we need from you now. Honestly, if I had known you were going to be this temperamental, I might have just drowned you at birth."

"Surely one of the other Young Ones is better suited for this mission?" she said desperately. She wasn't even supposed to study the human courts until she turned fourteen, and now they wanted her to go be a mole in one? To go live in the house of a human Duke for the rest of her days? They had just begun grooming her to join the Legion, to rise within the ranks of the common soldiers—they'd made it pretty clear she wasn't smart enough for intrigue, had they forgotten that?

He actually laughed. "Infinitely better suited. We have several Young Ones trained for just this situation—better educated, more refined, beautiful…but they all look too old."

That couldn't be right. "We have your superior blood," she protested, not hiding her confusion lest he think she was arguing with him. "Most of us look to be in our twenties until the day we die." Of course, they usually died young—it was rare for a Young One to die of natural causes—but according to her instructors the oldest had looked barely forty, and he'd been well over a hundred.

"Exactly," he chuckled, rapping on the box lightly with his knuckles. "They look too old."

The girl let that sink in, a growing sense of dread settling over her like a cloak. She began beating at the walls of the box in earnest. "Let me out! Let me out!"

There was a disappointed sigh from outside the darkness. "Ah, Young One, I expected better from my own bloodline." There was a pause as she kicked at the opening. "Fine," he said, voice gone cold as granite. "If you want to act uncouth, I'll really give you something to be afraid of."

Young One stiffened as she felt the spell wash over her, fueling her terror and multiplying it a hundredfold. It had been a long while since he had last put her in the box and cast Fear upon her, but she still knew what to do.

"There," he said, as the familiar sound of her terrified silence filled the room, "Now I can get back to my book in peace."

The girl curled up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She was not going to succumb to terror as some of the others had. She would not die of fear, locked up in a little box that would easily do for her coffin. Taking deep, steadying breaths, she focused all her energy against the spell, concentrating on _not being afraid…_

.

* * *

.

Ysmir jerked up, finding herself curled up in a corner of Shalidor's Maze. Not in the Summerset Isles, not in The Bastard's horrid box. Not about to be married off to some twisted Imperial Duke that had already buried two wives as the cementing piece of his alliance deal.

Compared to that, being lost in the middle of an underground maze filled with traps and monsters was a distinct improvement.

Her heart was still racing, her skin clammy with sweat. She took another deep breath, realizing that she actually was under the influence of a Fear spell, and a powerful one, at that. Still, she had learned to combat those as a child. She might be a little out of practice at it, but she could keep moving forward. Levering herself to her feet, she glanced around, frowning when she didn't see Miraak anywhere. Surely a Daedric Prince wouldn't fall victim to a Fear spell?

Trying to remember what exactly had happened, Ysmir began walking, reminding herself firmly that running while bespelled was a good way to run yourself to death. She was beginning to regret refusing to learn Illusion spells. Alteration she was just plain bad at, but it had revolted her to learn the same magic The Bastard had used to terrorize her and her mother.

Then again, wasn't her flame cloak from that side of the family? She'd never seen anyone use it as she did, but…Though according to Sheogorath, she had Dunmer in her as well. A lovely, bright-eyed Dunmer with amazingly skilled hands and that was where she had stopped him, afraid of hearing him wax eloquent on the subject.

She stopped, looking up in dismay as she reached the end of the hall. A dead end. The top of walls glimmered with red light, proving that the spell was a part of the maze itself, not necessarily cast on a person, just anything within the Trial. At least that made it unlikely to run into monsters in here. With a sigh, she turned and began heading back the way she had come, throttling down the thought that she might be lost in the maze forever…

"Ysmir!"

She turned, frowning at the wall. "Miraak?" she called.

"Damned wall," he cursed, and she almost smiled at the indignation in his tone.

"How did you find me?" she asked, wondering if he were going to try to climb over it or something.

"I told you, I can always find you," he said irritably. "Stand back," he added.

Her eyebrows shot up and she stared for a moment, but she backpedaled quickly enough the first time Unrelenting Force hit the stones. Recalling the Destruction maze, she yelled, "How far back are you?"

There was a pause. "You want to help?" he asked.

"Count of three," she replied, setting herself. "One."

"Two," he called.

"Three," she finished, _"Fus Ro Dah!"_

The wall rocked, stones tumbling from the top and dust rising from it in a cloud. Ysmir threw an experimental firebolt at it and it crumbled completely, revealing Miraak further up the path. The warm feelings that raced through her shocked her a bit, and for a moment she almost forgot she was still under the influence of Fear. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, have him hold her until the fear vanished, and that frightened her more than the actual spell. "Cast Courage on me, won't you?" she asked shakily as he approached, mask mysteriously missing. "If this keeps going I'm going to have heart problems later in life."

Miraak halted, frowning at her incredulously. "You're still bespelled? But…you're walking around, functioning…"

Ysmir shrugged, not as bothered that she couldn't hide her trembling as she would have been earlier. "I worked my way through it, but it's still there."

The dark fury that crossed his face made her distinctly uncomfortable. "It was those damned Thalmor, wasn't it?" he asked, figuring it out immediately. "How many times must they have thrown it on you before you began to develop a resistance?"

"Resistance," she reminded him, "Not immunity. Please cast."

His jaw clenched and looking utterly livid, he did as she requested, feeling murderous as all the tension visibly left her and she sank to the ground, taking deep breaths. "That's better," she sighed. Now she just had to wait until her muscles stopped trembling from the strain and they could work on getting the hell out of there.

"It's too early to celebrate yet," he told her, still wanting to place his hands around some Thalmor throats and squeeze. When this was all over, he was going to have to pay more attention to Alinor. He paused as something else occurred to him.

"What?" she asked, mildly alarmed by the look he was giving her.

"You were under Fear," he said.

Her eyebrows rose towards her hairline. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

Miraak tilted his head to the side, smiling cockily at her and that definitely wasn't good. "You didn't run from me."

Violet eyes widened as she realized his meaning. He was right, she hadn't run, and that could mean only one thing: The Daedric Prince of Forbidden Knowledge, the Dragon Priest Miraak who had once tried to kill her, made her feel safe.

"I blame my upbringing," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "I'm not right in the head."

"So why are you still treating me like you expect me to kill you? I really don't want to, and you've known that all along," he asked, brow lowering in a frown again as he leaned against the wall, looking down at her. "Why do you go to such great lengths to avoid me?"

Since Ysmir had no wish to continue this conversation, she pushed her hand through her hair (her braid was gone, and she had no idea when or where it had come undone) and rose to her feet. "What did you mean when you said it was too early to celebrate?"

Miraak shrugged his free shoulder. "Simply that each trial has had multiple parts to overcome. The visions may be separate from the Fear spell, but I doubt that's it for the Illusion trial."

"And finding our way out isn't trial enough?" she groused, turning to walk on.

"Ysmir," he said, reaching out and grabbing her arm. Once again, his touch had an instant effect on her, although this time was a bit stranger than usual.

The Dragonborn pivoted and struck him across the jaw with all her might. "Don't touch me! I can't handle that right now!" she yelled ferociously, her gut churning with anger so intense she didn't even mind the sore state of her knuckles.

Miraak turned back to look at her slowly, his eyes blazing and black once more as he wiped blood from his lip, glaring at her. She returned the look fearlessly, every line of her taunt with sudden, barely suppressed violence as the steady, ambient light was once again tinged red from the spell capping the walls. Miraak paused, struggling to work through what he felt at the moment, which was murderous. Hadn't he just told her that he had no wish to kill her? So why did he want to now? His gaze flickered to the walls, and understanding dawned.

"Mayhem," he realized, backing away from her. "Ysmir, we're under a Fury spell."

"Oh, do you think?" she snarled, raking her hair off her face once more and turning from him abruptly, pacing as if she couldn't bear to stand still. "Hurry up and cast Calm, would you? If we start Shouting at each other we'll be buried alive. And later I will be very frightened that that thought doesn't bother me in the slightest at the moment."

The former Dragon Priest tilted his head, considering her for a long moment from glittering black eyes. "No," he finally decided.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "'No?'" she repeated incredulously. "What in Oblivion do you mean, 'no?'"

"You can't handle me touching you?" he said, latching on to her earlier words. "Why not?"

Ysmir stared at him for a long moment, considering the question. After a few seconds, she gave her reply. _"Yol Tor Shul!"_

**.**

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**Hello, people. I hope you've been having a good week! Still unemployed, still stressed about it, but at least my chinchillas and goldfish and turtles are cute. My boyfriend is cute too, even if he does insist on waking me up before my alarm. -_-' Even without a job, there is a lot of...stuff...going on.**

**Welcome new followers and favorites! Thank you to those who reviewed! **

**afeleon276: I tend to describe a glomp as a "tackle hug." Like you see in anime, where they usually turn slightly chibi-ish, one looks really happy and the person being hugged looks terrified. :P I think telling Ysmir and Miraak that they're cute together would be really interesting. I just might have to arrange it at some point, if they're ever around people. XD Also, talk begun! Off to a great start! **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Thank you. I would have enjoyed seeing more of Gelabor too, but something tells me that he would actually be kind of boring to hang out with unless you managed to drag him out of the temple. Then he would probably feel bad about leaving his duty. **

**Wynni: Was it bandits? Did bandits kidnap you? Or vampires, maybe? No one sent me a letter yet. :P**

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**Next Week: I'm in a bit of a conundrum, what with Real Life being unconducive to writing. So, either I don't post next week or I can post a short story picking right up from where child!Miraak met the Dragon Priest. It would be a separate story, so you probably wouldn't get an alert on it. Your choice. Let me know in the comments. **


	66. Chapter 66: Ysmir's Decision

_"Yol Tor Shul!"_

Miraak instinctively called up a ward, deflecting the fire safely around him. It charred the stone walls of the maze around him, funneling upwards to lick at the roots hanging from the high ceiling, the flickering orange disguising the dull red glow of the Fury spell for a few moments. He threw his arm down with a snarl, dismissing it. "So that's how it's going to be?" he asked her, straightening.

Her gaze was sharp as flint and about as welcoming. "I am not discussing this with you."

"Why not?" he inquired scathingly. She lunged toward him thoughtlessly, hand going to her weapon, only to have him Shout _"Tiid!"_ before moving impossibly fast, seizing her wrists to throw her against the wall, using Ice Form to hold her there. Miraak took a deep breath, obviously able to retain control far better than she was, which only served to irritate her more. "Now," he said, black eyes gleaming as he watched her struggle against the ice encasing her upper body and thighs, "you've completely changed your mind about me at some point; you might as well let me know what I did."

"I saw what you did to Siddgeir," she revealed, flames blossoming around her hands.

"That man wanted to hurt you," he informed her, eyes narrowing. "He wanted to debase you and see you suffer. He wanted to make your daughters suffer. Did you really think I could let that go?"

"I don't need you to protect me, Miraak!" she yelled, practically snarling. The flames around her clenched hands flared up to her shoulders, steaming the blood that welled out around the small, crescent-shaped cuts her nails dug into her palms and cracking the ice. She barely noticed.

He actually laughed at her, the bastard. She didn't need a spell to make her want to kill him when he laughed at her. "And what would you have me do, then?" he wondered aloud, his face bitter. "You left me to rot in Apocrypha for another six years after offering to aid me, only to return and tell me I had a child. I really thought that perhaps you would return this time, but the next time I saw you was two months later, and only at the behest of a dragon that once tried to kill me." Miraak shook his head as her eyes widened at his words, at this line of attack. "I know you want me, Ysmir. I can see it in the way you gaze at me, at the way you respond to my touch, yet you persist in denying it. In all your wanderings, you've always gone after what you want—it's one of the things I admire about you. So why avoid me? What is it about me that makes you turn away?"

"You're an Aedra-forsaken ex-Dragon Priest with a cruel streak wider than the Karth!" Ysmir reminded him, thrashing. "And—don't forget—you're planning to take over the world!"

"I could hardly do any worse with it than it's doing on its own!" he rebutted, looking disgusted at the very though. "Even you admit this world is corrupt, but you don't do anything to _change_ it. You take in children and play house while the world burns around you! A war tears apart the very land you call home and you've let it go on for a decade."

She shook her head violently, glaring at him, "I will have no part in that stupid debate. I gave them a chance for peace once, and they threw it in my face!"

"And the Thalmor?" he persisted mercilessly. "Part of you cringes at the very name. After everything they did to you, everything you_ know _they are planning, and all you do is hide from them. What kind of hero does that?"

"I _saved the damned world!"_ she screamed, finally breaking an arm free of the ice and venting some of her frustration by throwing a chunk at his head. He dodged, of course. It would have made her feel at least a little better to have hit him. "Isn't that enough? Is it really my responsibility to fix everything?"

"So why go after me for wanting to do what you will not?" he demanded, just as frustrated. "What do you want from me, Ysmir? Do you really think I should just let this farce continue, to sit back and watch for another four thousand years of chaos? Do you really want Darva and your others to have to cope in the same world you grew up in? A world that left most of them orphans? Don't you want better for them?"

"Don't you dare bring them into this! Don't pretend your intentions are noble," she cried, flames going out as her hands curled into fists, too enraged to even cast. "Leave the world alone! Leave _us_ alone!"

If possible, his gaze hardened. "She's my daughter, too," he reminded her.

"You know nothing about her," Ysmir countered tightly.

"And whose fault is that?" he snapped back, taking a step towards her.

"Stay away from me!" she demanded, casting a fire rune between them as her cloak flared up, melting the ice in rivulets that flowed toward the rune, evaporating with a hiss before making contact. Ysmir reeled as the ice fell away, limbs quivering with cold and rage. Miraak paused a moment, looking down at the ring of fire, his face blank. Then he stepped into the rune, setting it off as she gasped, worried despite herself, but it did nothing more than char his clothing, the bits that had been set alight going out as she watched, leaving barely a darkened spot.

"You can fire spells at me all you like," he told her, holding out his arms to give her a clear target. "It won't do anything anymore."

"You arrogant bastard," Ysmir snarled, drawing her dagger and darting towards him. Miraak surprised her by deflecting the strike with the spikes of his gauntlet, turning with her rush to send her stumbling down the corridor.

"Mayhem spells sometimes affect your attack patterns," he told her, "I'm guessing you've had less exposure to this one since your attacks are so sloppy."

She narrowed her eyes, the red in her vision darkening as she rushed him again, flicking to the side at the last moment to bring the pommel of the Dragon Priest dagger against his cheekbone, splitting the skin where it met the scales while shoving with her other hand, turning him as she rushed under the reach of any immediate retaliation. Once passed him she whirled, expecting him to come after her. Miraak bared his teeth and began to draw his own sword, then seemed to think better of it and shoved it back into the sheath with a scowl. Ysmir frowned, pausing as she realized just what he was up to and trying desperately to get ahold of her temper. "This isn't like last time, Miraak; I'm not going to spill all my secrets to get myself angry. The Mayhem spell makes that unnecessary."

He snorted, Healing the wound. "That you are talking at all is a vast improvement. Avoidance is very unbecoming in a dragon, you know."

"Most dragons find subtly unbecoming as well," she pointed out acidly, chafing her arms to get the blood flowing back to them. "Using this situation to get the answers you want is a low tactic, even for you."

"Then perhaps I should cast a Truth spell," he countered, giving her a moment of panic that there might be such a thing before she realized that he was still goading her. "I will have this out of you. You're not getting away that easily after saying something like _that."_

"Damn it, Miraak, either cast Calm or leave me alone," the Dragonborn told him angrily, whirling away in an attempt to lessen the desire to continue her pointless attacks. The ridges on the grip of her dagger dug into her palm, making her cuts sting and helping to ground her as she focused on her breathing for a few seconds, trying to conquer this spell as she had Fear. She'd never wanted to kill someone so much in her life, and she wasn't even sure it was Shalidor's spell anymore. Insufferable man. "Just accept that I want nothing to do with you and move on."

"Is that really what you want?" he asked, his voice soft. Reflexively, she turned to look at him and froze, her eyes locking on his. He frowned in confusion, watching her, seeing thoughts flickering across her eyes. "It's not," he stated, then forced himself to look away, rubbing his head and finally casting Calm, sighing in resignation. She relaxed as the tension ran out of her, as the rage stopped, reaching out to place a hand against the wall as it actually made her dizzy. Above them, the hovering light dissipated. "I don't understand you sometimes, woman. Your mouth says one thing and your eyes say another."

Ysmir stiffened. "What, you can read minds now?" she asked, hiding the sudden fear that blossomed in her with a scathing tone as she shoved her dagger through the loop on her belt.

"It is a gift that was once Hermaeus Mora's," he told her, scrutinizing her again. "But I won't read your mind, Ysmir—not when I can help it, at least. I could, but I prefer if you told me yourself, even if waiting for you to do so is driving me mad."

"Have you ever done it before?" she gulped, a cold lump forming inside her that had nothing to do with having been imprisoned in ice.

He nodded, and she flinched. "That time you brought Odahviing to my temple you practically wrote your emotions on your face for all to see. You were afraid for him, and for me. When I saw myself through your eyes I felt as if I were drowning in it. I don't know what it was that frightened you so, though."

"Your eyes," she found herself saying, much to both their surprise. "They reminded me…it was like I was looking into the sea in Apocrypha." She straightened, tucking her tussled hair behind her ear and looking away. He really wasn't going to let this go, was he? "Arngeir once told me that when I learn a new Word I take it's meaning into myself, just as I do with dragon souls. The more souls I devour, the more I can unlock—but I always wondered, will I lose a bit more of myself with each soul I take? When am I more _dovah_ than woman?"

Miraak felt his lips part as he finally started to understand. "I've been taking souls for centuries," he stated, and she nodded reluctantly, "and then I took Hermaeus Mora's."

"I always sensed you had more in common with the _dov_ than I did," she admitted. "I could sense that your nature was that much closer to theirs. Don't ask me how; I couldn't even begin to tell you. But dragons are one thing—I know quite a few dragons that are decent beings. Alduin led them to do terrible things, but most of them just want to be left in peace to their own endeavors. The Way of the Voice isn't really that far from what some of them want, especially the older ones. But Hermaeus Mora wasn't a dragon. He was a Daedric Prince—with every bit of the evil and malice that implies. You took that into yourself. How long until it consumes you?"

Drawing on her courage, she turned to face him, looking levelly up into his slightly stunned gaze. "You're a Daedra, who may be overtaken by the nature that you've devoured. Even if you aren't, your own nature is that of dominion. You don't look outside your own interests or those of your followers, but simply act on those interests, no matter who else it may hurt. While I don't approve of what you did on Solstheim, I can understand what you felt, the desperation to do anything to escape Apocrypha. Did you ever once show remorse, though? Have you ever tried to repay them for what you forced them to do? Perhaps once you were a good man, Miraak, if a misguided one. I cannot bring myself to hope that you might be again. Not anymore. And…and I can't let myself be drawn into that. I can't let Darva be drawn into that."

He shook his head slowly, closing his eyes. "You've heard my goal," he told her finally. "How can you think I care nothing for others?"

"Because if you did, you would seek to guide them, not to rule them," she stated baldly, tilting her chin up to stare directly into his face. "Don't make the same mistake Alduin did, Miraak. It was my destiny to kill him—don't make me have to find a way to kill you as well, because if I truly feel I have to I will die trying."

"I know," he said sadly, "but I cannot simply stop being who I am to please you. Perhaps if you had seen what I had…"

Ysmir nodded curtly. "Perhaps if I had, I would be as jaded as you, but all I can see is a world that has seen enough death and war, trying to right itself."

"But do you truly believe it will be allowed to?" he challenged.

She thought about it a moment, thought about Ulfric, and the Thalmor, and people like Harkon. Perhaps her words were naive, but it had been years since she had been. "No," she said shortly, shrugging, "but I'll do my damnedest to ensure it doesn't have another crazed warlord in my lifetime—including you. I didn't save it just so it could destroy itself."

"You may be Dovahkiin, Ysmir, but you're still just a woman," he cautioned her. "You cannot be everywhere."

"Talos was just a man," she pointed out.

"With an army," Miraak reminded her. "War is how this world renews itself."

Ysmir scoffed angrily, "And you wonder why I don't want Darva to meet you. You'd probably have her figure-heading your cultists within a week."

Miraak was silent for a moment, gazing down at her. "Well, she hasn't noticeably changed so far, so I suppose you're wrong about that."

She recoiled, "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I have met Darva," he told her, watching the horror on her face in something between rage and sorrow that somehow encompassed both. "Not more than a week after you first told me about her. She was riding along the road when she was attacked by undead, and her fear summoned me to her. If I hadn't heard her, or if you had waited just a few more days to tell me about her, she would have been dead."

Ysmir stared at him in shock for a long moment, then sat shakily when her knees wobbled at the very thought, putting her back against the wall as her hands came up to cover her face. Her poor baby had been through so much lately—was still going through who-knows-what—and she was helpless to stop it. And Miraak… "Have you seen her since? Talked to her?" she asked woodenly.

"At least twice a week," he stated. "I taught her how to summon me. She is a fast learner," there was no mistaking the pride in his tone.

Frowning, she surmised, "So something is keeping her from doing that now?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Resolutely, she stood, dusting off her robes. "When this is over," she stated, steeling herself, "I don't want you to answer those summons anymore. I don't want you in our lives, Miraak."

His gaze turned positively glacial. "I can't do that."

"You can and you will," Ysmir said firmly, feeling as if her heart were breaking. It was for the best, she reminded herself, watching his face carefully. But if this wasn't the hardest thing she had ever done, she didn't want to remember what else had hurt this much. The glacial expression had melted into something much worse, and she wasn't certain she wouldn't break under the weight of it. "And if you're going to keep looking at me like that, I'd prefer if you'd put that thrice-damned mask back on."

Miraak regarded her steadily, his eyes fading from black to their normal blue and gold as she watched, the slight rise and fall of his chest his only movement. Ysmir spun away, unable to face him anymore and wishing heartily that he would go back to Apocrypha, even if she had to face the rest of the maze alone. "Stop looking at me like that!" she burst out, starting down the curving corridor.

"Like what, Ysmir?" he asked softly, his voice heavy with some quality she daren't put a name to. Something she'd felt often until these last few years, and had tried her best to forget.

She halted, realizing she was heading down a dead end. She would have to turn and face him. "Stop looking at me like I just ripped your heart out," she whispered, hugging herself.

"Why? Because you'd prefer if I didn't have one?" he replied, that same quality still weighing down every word, twining with the bitterness he felt. "I do, you know. I'm forced to fend with it every day. The thought of you or Darva in danger makes me nearly sick with worry, and when I think that you rely on others to help protect you, it's infuriating enough that I want to rend something. There was a time when I would have reacted exactly how you are—tried to run from it, to deny it with all my being. Then I remembered that I'm immortal now, and you're not. You only have so much time left, and I wish you wouldn't waste it running from me."

The thought struck her cold—she had never thought about that. Her imagination betrayed her, summoning the image of him alone, forever, amongst the vast library of Apocrypha. All those years fighting for release, only to end up ruling the very place he had sought escape from. He was forever bound to it as surly as if he had been trapped. And he was alone, even more than she ever was. He always had been, and he always would be.

Except for her, and Darva, and the comparatively very few years they would live. The devastation of trying to drive him away was nothing against the pain that thought evoked, and she'd be getting the better end of it.

But her objections earlier were still true. This new knowledge didn't change anything—_couldn't _change anything.

Except she would never be able to look at their daughter again without thinking of it.

Miraak watched her for a long moment as she stood, breathing deeply but otherwise unmoving, facing away from him as if she couldn't bear to look at him. He sighed; no matter their issues, they needed to get whatever the Arch Mage had hidden in this maze. Still, he wished they didn't need to—that they could simply go off and rescue their daughter and have time to recover from this. He found it incredibly galling that it could not be so. Reaching out, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder, mildly surprised when she didn't draw away. "We need to keep moving," he reminded her, starting to head back down the corridor.

"Miraak," she said, catching his hand momentarily. He glanced back, not daring to hope, but her head was bowed, face streaked with tears. She appeared utterly defeated.

That struck him as horribly wrong. Frowning, he stepped back to her, lifting her chin gently so that she was forced to look at him. She avoided his searching look by casting her own gaze downward, looking almost submissive if he were fool enough to ever think that of her. "You don't always need to deny your weaknesses, you know," he chided her gently. "You're strong in spite of them. Sometimes because of them." This wasn't his world anymore, where softness was weakness and therefore one of the quickest ways to get killed. She needn't be like that—he would frankly hate to see her reduced to that. Even if she rejected him, the thought of her needing to hide her emotions like he once had twisted his stomach.

He intended to leave it at that, but her gaze flickered up to meet his, briefly, her soul as bare as if she meant him to consume it, and he felt physically stunned by what he saw there. She wasn't hiding anything after all, though he wasn't sure she had intended for him to see it. Miraak almost grinned at the stray thought that crossed before her eyes, one he'd had himself from time to time.

Her breath hitched a little as his hand moved from touching her chin to cupping her cheek, his eyes still seeming to read everything she wasn't certain she wanted him to know, and certainly hadn't meant him to. Slowly, as if he expected her to push him away, he bent until his lips hovered just over hers.

The choice was hers, she realized. It always had been. Amoral, arrogant, and tyrannical he might be, but he wasn't going to force her into anything; not at the point of a sword, not by Shouting, not even by using her own feelings against her. If she was truly convinced she could live without him, now was her chance to walk away. She should take it.

"What does she call you?" she asked breathlessly. "What did you tell her to call you?"  
"Bormah," he supplied, pulling back a bit to gaze down at her. "I told her to call me Bormah."

"What does it mean?" Ysmir asked earnestly.

Miraak didn't even hesitate, "Father."

She couldn't keep back the smile that warmed her eyes even if she wanted to. Savoring his rather surprised expression for the moment it took her to stand on tip-toes and pull his lips down to hers, sealing her decision with a kiss. Was it right? Perhaps not, but she found herself doubting she could live with any other outcome. The idea of leaving him alone—for eternity!—was even worse than returning to being the only Dragonborn, save for Darva, who could not yet comprehend exactly what it meant. No one had ever understood the need to spread wings she didn't have, to shed a body that didn't fit her soul and race amongst the spears of lightning in a storm. He understood, completely, the feeling of knowing he was different than everyone around him, of being feared and held in awe for it simultaneously.

Miraak's arms came around her with a small groan that she interpreted as happy, thought she really couldn't recall actually hearing unalloyed happiness in his voice before. Well, that was going to change. She had no idea how she was going to explain this to…well, anyone, but she'd manage. They were going to get out of here and get Darva back, and Miraak was going to be a part of their lives. Not a secret part, either. She was sick of those. Well, perhaps the Daedric Prince bit…

"This is just a chance, you know," she felt obligated to point out, breaking away for a moment. "I don't want our daughter growing up to be some sort of tyrannical cult leader, and you won't be ignoring my other children, or trying to keep the twins from being fathers to them, either. And I don't want us to be any part of you trying to take over the world. In fact, I would prefer if you stopped that altogether. I would hate to have to explain to the children why I suddenly started trying to kill you again."

"I figured," he assured her, giving her a wicked grin that reassured her not at all. "I still need a few decades to implement that anyway," he added—also not reassuring—before pulling her back to him and cutting off any further conversation. If he chose not to point out that he knew her deciding factor had been keeping an eye on his plans, she didn't mention that he was going to be patently monitoring her activity, either. He rather liked having her in opposition, anyway. It kept things interesting.

Ysmir gasped as the kiss became more heated, feeling the familiar heating of her blood and the surge of longing that followed as he backed her up, hefting her against the wall, hands roving to her hips. Chainmail clinked faintly as his hands trailed underneath it, halting where her belt cinched it to her waist. Reluctantly, she broke off, leaving them both panting and squirming a bit when his lips simply moved down to her neck. "We need to…This isn't the best place…Any idea how to get out of here?" she asked, recalling him to their current predicament.

Taking a step back from her and a deep, shaky breath that filled her with pride for having so undone his composure, Miraak drew the book back out and cast yet another spell she didn't recognize upon it. At this rate, Ysmir was seriously considering returning to Apocrypha long enough to grab half a dozen obscure spellbooks. A spot appeared on the map, only a few turns from the path he had traced. Seeing her questioning look, he grinned. "It's a spell designed to find keys," he told her, nodding to the ring on her belt that sported her many house keys. Quickly, he traced a new path from where the mark was to the original route.

She shook her head in admiration. "I admit it; you're smart."

"Oh, I'm brilliant," he stated, holding out a hand to her. "You'll learn eventually."

Ysmir rolled her eyes, swatting his hand away playfully. "Now I know why Apocrypha was so big; it had nothing to do with all the books, and everything to do with containing your ego."

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**Hello, guys! Sorry for the hiatus, but things have been rather crazy in my life, including inter-state visits and stays in the hospital. Oh, and I'm still unemployed. -_- At this point, it looks like this will be updated whenever I get a chance and have something ready, rather than weekly, and I apologize for that. I'll try to get cliffhangers up in consecutive weeks, and will probably stick to updating on Thursdays and Fridays. If I get enough written ahead, I will go back to weekly updates, but I don't know how possible that is at this point.**

**In other news, I won the Legends-of-Skyrim Anniversary writing competition! The contest was about what your Dragonborn was doing exactly one year after their defeat of Alduin. I may post it here one of these days, or you can find it on my deviantart under the same name I use here.**

**I also posted another prequel on here called the Tale of Meric. Please read and let me know what you think! It picks right up from one of Miraak's flashbacks in the previous chapter.**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! **

**afeleon276: He was a bit more than just annoyed. Try "enrage," "furious," or "vengeful." He hasn't really been digging very far into Alinor because they don't like Daedra, but now he's definitely going to be more active over there. As for how the Blades would react to Rommy...probably not very well. He's rather annoyed at how they are acting, since he remembers them quite fondly. Were it possible to take another long vacation from Sheo duties, he would probably stage a hostile takeover to restore them to what they were. Now I'm getting ideas...**

**Finwee the Signed-Out: Thanks. :) I hope further interaction was to your liking. **

**Wynni: Hope your brood and kitten are doing well. :D Miraak chose not to cast Calm because Ysmir angrily yelling at him is what he wants. He would prefer she just told him things, but he really doesn't want to read her mind because he knows she'll find that off-putting, and she really doesn't need any more excuses for avoiding him. Ysmir didn't study Illusion Spells because The Bastard used them heavily, and they brought back severely unhappy memories. She doesn't like the idea of manipulating people as she was. I don't know if Miraak would accept hugs...**

**Sevvyn: The Bastard was more than happy to scare his poor little granddaughter with that idea, but in reality, he was a miserly bastard who treated his wives like his livestock: Breed them young, early, and often to get the most use out of them. He had already buried previous wives from this kind of treatment, and was in no way adverse to having a pretty new wife at the beginning of her bearing years that-thanks to her elven blood-wouldn't wear out as fast as his previous ones. The fact that those of elven blood don't conceive easily wasn't a hindrance to that idea; he already had a dozen or so children. As for Miraak's motivations, you are entirely correct, even if he didn't actually take any fire to the face.**

**KulaanMiraak: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it. :) Welcome to fanfiction!**

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**Next Chapter: Esbern meets the new Dragonborn.**


	67. Chapter 67: Hope of Redemption

Esbern shifted on the cart bench, stretching his legs as best he could without disturbing Rainer. The former Alik'r glanced at him but didn't comment, hands steady on the reins. Esbern sighed: He was too old for this. He'd stopped leaving the temple for these kinds of jaunts years ago, and only frequent bursts of Restoration magic made them anything approaching bearable now. He was ninety-two years old, for Talos's sake! What could be so important that Delphine needed him on the Aalto Plains? Not that he was going to protest being on Eastmarch's caldera rather than up on some mountain somewhere, but what on Nirn did she want with three entire freshly killed dragon skeletons?

"Here," Jori said, leaning over her horse to hand him a pair of small bottles containing a health potion and a weak stamina potion.

"Bless you, girl," he sighed, downing them quickly and sighing as the swelling in his joints receded. He really was far too old for this, he thought, thinking wistfully of the heavily padded chair next to the fireplace in his room back at Karthspire. A nice cup of tea, a good book…ah, well.

"We're almost there, old man," the Alik'r piped in with some sympathy, now apparently figuring out that Esbern's shifting had more to do with arthritis than impatience. "There's a full camp where you can make more of your tonic."

Jori shook her head, "I don't understand. I just came from these plains, and we've been over them dozens of times! What's out here that's so interesting?"

"I just follow orders, Snow Maid," Rainer said with a grin, glancing down at the ebony battleaxe she wielded, the powerful frost enchantment on it making it gleam blue and white along its edges. "I don't question them."

"You must be a little curious, at least," she persisted, not appearing to notice what some of the Nords would consider a racial slur. Talos knew Rainer put up with enough sly jokes about his "curved sword."

"We will know when we get there," he said equitably. "It could be a long forgotten ruin was rediscovered. It could be a meeting place for other dragon scholars, like our Lore Master here. We will not know until we discover it ourselves. There is no point in speculating." A slight smile appeared again when Jori groaned.

"Come on, Rainer!" she cried. "If nothing else, it passes the time!"

"The old man could tell a story," he suggested.

"Neither of you showed any particular interest in the lore," Esbern said stiffly. "I can't imagine you'd be any more appreciative of my efforts to educate you now." Jori giggled at that and patted his shoulder.

"If I wanted to know anything," Rainer said after a moment, "It would be about your pretty friend who came calling."

Esbern could have sworn Jori flinched. "Ria? She's just someone I trained with as a girl."

"She traveled a long way through Foresworn lands to talk to someone she just trained with as a girl," the man replied.

Jori rolled her eyes. "Why are you so interested in my girlish exploits now, Rainer?"

"She knew where Sky Haven Temple was," he said, slanting a glance her way.

The young woman shrugged. "She was considering joining when I did, but she decided to become a mercenary instead."

"Not join Legion? That's what most young, sword-wielding Imperials seem to be doing nowadays," he observed, still giving most of his attention to the horse before them.

"She has very little interest in the war," Jori stated, looking away. "Holy Nine, is that our camp?"

Esbern sat up, frowning. It was indeed a Blade's camp, set up under a group of pines at the base of a small hill that might hold a barrow or a cave. Much larger than he expected, and he devoutly hoped Delphine had talked this over with Ulfric before camping out here. She must have—Ulfric knew her and Delphine was no fool.

She was also much too cautious to be out in the open like this. What had changed?

A sentry greeted them before he had too long to fret about it, strolling up with a wide grin to see the canvas-covered carts. "You've finally arrived. I hope you brought some meat—something has been running off all the game. Last night we had to resort to sabercat stew for the second night in a row."

"We've provisions," Rainer assured her, business-like mask once more in place. "Where did the Grand Mistress want the rest of it?"

"Right in front of the cave, please," Delphine herself said, striding forward. There was a gleam in her eyes that Esbern hadn't seen for a long time. "It's good to see you made it through all right." Her eyes ticked to Jori, "Though I don't remember requesting your return. Shouldn't you be celebrating your latest kill?"

Jori grinned, "And sit around the Temple for the next week, being eaten alive by curiosity? No thank you." She slid out of the saddle, offering the horse for Delphine's use as Rainer brought the carts nearer the cave, walking along beside the Grand Mistress. "We're all dying to know what you've found out here."

"I'm surprised Esbern hasn't realized by now," Delphine said, giving him a penetrating look that he definitely didn't like. It was the same look she used to give Ysmir when she suspected the girl was hiding something from her. "After all, he's the one whose research prompted the discovery."

Esbern stared back at her. "You…you found another…" he couldn't finish, feeling as if his mind had stopped even as thoughts raced in little, frantic circles. She nodded slowly, knowing what he couldn't bring himself to say, and he felt tears gather in his eyes. Their cause was not lost. They might have a Dragonborn again—one that would do their duty to the world. One that would continue to slay the dragons until they were once again purged from the world. "Who? How? When?"

"You'll see soon enough, old friend," she said, apparently mollified by his reaction. "You'll see soon enough."

.

* * *

.

Sofie watched the carts file passed them, wondering what was in them. Alesan glanced up too, but quickly went back to what he had been doing—which, as far as Sofie could tell, involved a lot of sitting with his eyes closed. They had been shocked to see each other, but managed to make it look like they hadn't met before. So far, no one had called them out on it. Actually, no one seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to them at all, provided they didn't stray from their tent.

She sat, pulling her basket of taproots into her lap. Quiet she might be, but she had pitched an unholy fit when they tried to take it and the jar of sap to the Alchemy lab, and they had left them with her to stave off further noise. They still thought the mean one had killed her parents, after all, and many of them seemed to be trying to make it up to her. Sooner or later they were going to take her to Honorhall, and then she would find a way to get a message to their mother. Ysmir had given her an Amulet of Restoration for her last birthday, and it was still around her neck, next to her new Amulet of Kynareth—perhaps she could trade it for a ride to Whiterun.

"I tell you, I saw it!" someone hissed nearby. Sofie glanced at Alesan, who had opened his eyes at the urgent voice. He edged closer to the back of the next tent, trying to better hear the frantic words. "I thought it was a troll at first, but then I saw the face…The tales are true, every one of them!"

"Idiot. Werewolves don't exist. Even if they did, why would they be all the way out here? Wouldn't they feel more at home in a forest somewhere?"

Alesan grabbed her hand tightly, eyes round and hopeful. Sofie felt her own hands shaking. Could it be? Had one of them tracked her here?

"I don't know why it's here or what it wants, but I keep seeing it! It circles the camp at least twice a night, looking for a way in! The Grand Mistress needs to know!"

"Don't go bothering the Grand Mistress with such things!" the second voice snapped. "She has better things to deal with than your fantasies."

"Dragons were fantasies once too, you know," the first voice grumbled.

The Redguard boy pulled back toward their tent, looking thoughtful. "Who do you think it is?" he asked quietly, settling back into his cross-legged posture.

Sofie shrugged. "I don't know. It might not be anyone we know, but whoever it is certainly sounds like they're looking for something."

Alesan was quiet a long moment. "Do you think they'd be able to get all of us? I mean, if there's only one of them, then it would make more sense to get you out and come back with Mother."

"We're not leaving Darva here," she said fiercely, and Alesan's eyes grew round at her tone. "These people killed Asta and Sond just for telling them no. I don't want Darva alone with them."

"But she is alone," he pointed out, pulling his knees up and hugging them. "She's Dragonborn, Sofie, just like Mother. And they want that. They don't care about us. I haven't even seen her since they took her down into that cave."

Taking a deep breath, Sofie put her arms around him, holding him close and trying to be calm and reassuring like Runa or the Papas. "They won't hurt her if they want a Dragonborn. Most of them don't want to hurt us, either. We just have to hold tight until the grownups come. Then we'll be fine, you'll see."

"You didn't see them kill that Dark Elf up on the Throat of the World," Alesan said, shivering. "He was just trying to protect us—just an old man, running away—and they shot him in the back, then left him to bleed out in the snow. Didn't leave a health potion or nothing. Maybe some of them don't want to hurt us, but there are some evil people with them that wouldn't give it a second thought."

His older sister shivered, holding him tighter. She would be strong, she promised herself quietly. She'd be like the Spriggans, and protect what she cared about. Releasing Alesan, she pulled her basket with the sack and jar over to her, settling it in her lap and putting a hand around her brother. They would make it. They all would.

Beneath her hand, the taproots pulsed, then went dark.

.

* * *

.

Esbern settled himself in a chair someone from the camp had fetched for him, watching as Rainer backed the last of the carts to the cave and Jori pulled the canvas tarps from the carefully stacked dragon bones. Now he understood why Delphine had insisted on the bones being from the freshly slain—they still did not know when or even if the soul departed the bones, but it was best to be sure. He rubbed his knees, waiting for Delphine to emerge from the cave with the new Dragonborn.

A new Dragonborn. He could hardly believe it, hadn't believed it the when Ysmir had sought him out. He didn't think the girl would try to trick them in such a way, but that didn't mean she was right, either. It was simply too good to be true, and therein lay the source of his unease. He had been uneasy since talking to Ysmir again. He had forgotten what it was like to be around her, to feel the press of her sometimes volatile personality, as if her soul were trying to overwhelm his just by proximity. It could be this was only because he knew what she was, but somehow, he thought everyone around her felt it to one extent or another.

He wondered if this new Dragonborn was the same, and what they had thought of Ysmir, since they had obviously met her. Was that how she had known? Had she felt the same press against her soul that he had sensed around her? Esbern didn't claim any special abilities besides a reasonably good memory, but he had always known there was something about the girl, even before she had told him what she was. The regret that tore at him was nothing new, but he was surprised to feel it now, when all their prayers had apparently been answered with a new bearer of dragon's blood.

_"'What is better—to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?'"_

The memory came to him unbidden, Ysmir gazing at him solemnly after returning from High Hrothgar where they had sent her to kill Paarthurnax. She had asked him such a strange question, sounding as if she were quoting someone.

_He sighed, knowing she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. She might not even have climbed the mountain. "I know this is difficult for you, child, but Delphine was right. Paarthurnax helped his brother enslave our ancestors, and justice for his misdeeds is long overdue."_

_"He also helped them rebel," she pointed out, undeterred. "I know Del thinks he's going to turn on us, too, but he's been up on that mountain doing nothing but good for several eras! That has to tell you something!"_

_"Ysmir, I'm deeply sorry, but Paarthurnax's later deeds do not expiate his crimes," he said, trying to be firm. He realized he had said the wrong thing when her face seemed to freeze, the light going out of her eyes. For a moment she only stared at him, then she surprised him by untying Dragonbane from her belt and thrusting the hilt into his hand, pulling the sheath away and grabbing the blade, sparks arching around her knuckles even as drops of blood welled from her flesh._

_"What are you doing?" he asked, aghast, when she lifted the tip of the blade to rest over her heart._

_"There's no hope for redemption, isn't that what you mean?" she asked him flatly. "That once an evil is done, there is no way to make up for it?" He gaped at her, afraid to move lest he cut her, unable to drop the hilt because the weight of the sword would sever her fingers. "Answer me!"_

_Esbern jumped slightly. Ysmir had never shouted at him. She was always the essence of politeness, even when being ironic. "There is nothing he could do to make up for what he helped inflict upon humanity," Esbern finally said, choosing his words with care._

_"I killed my first man when I was six, Esbern," she said, that sick, faraway look in her eyes, flames dancing around her hair. "Six. They didn't want me to feel remorse later, so they gave me the knife when I wouldn't know any better. I still knew better, but I was afraid, and so I did it. Should I pay for his life, Esbern? Or the next one? Or the next? When does it stop?"_

_"Ysmir…" he began, but stopped when she shook her head sharply._

_"I thought I could make up for what I was forced to do, what I was raised to be. I thought perhaps it was to prepare me for my destiny, for being Dragonborn. But if there really is no redemption then you might as well not delay justice for me any longer, either."_

_They stood like that for several seconds, unable to break the tableau. Finally, he had breathed, "I cannot kill you, Ysmir."_

_Thankfully, she'd let go of the blade, but her face was still as granite as he dropped it, letting it clatter to the floor. "And I cannot kill him," she stated, turned, and left the Temple. After a few days, he'd sent Dragonbane back to her. After a few weeks, he'd realized they'd truly lost her._

The bones on the cart nearest the entrance began to glow, and Esbern sat up, shaking off the memories that plagued him to try to catch sight of the new Dragonborn. Light blazed from the two flanking carts a moment later, rushing after the first as if their tenure inside the bones had made them eager for freedom. The figure emerging from the cave was obscured by the swirling light, like an aurora descended from the sky. It began to dissipate, and he held his breath.

"Delphine…" he began, hardly able to comprehend what he saw.

"Esbern," she replied, juggling the small figure in her arms with a frown. "Perhaps I should have had them brought one at a time. I didn't expect her to faint."

"That's the Dragonborn?" he asked, staring with growing horror and hope at the girl. "She's just a child!"

"She'll grow," Delphine assured him. "We can shape this one, Esbern, as some of the ancient Dragonborn who were raised by the Blades."

The old man stumbled forward, brushing a hand glowing with healing light over the golden curls, feeling sick. "Delphine, there is a_ reason_ the ancient Blades waited before taking a Dragonborn out into the field! The soul of a Dragonborn must fight down the soul of every dragon it takes—it drove some of them mad as they became more dragon than human, as they lost their sense of self. How much worse might it be when someone hasn't even lived long enough to have a strong sense of self?"

She glowered at him. "I didn't call you here for a lecture, Esbern," she began, then sighed. "Fine. I won't have any more remains brought here for a while. She's only taken one other, and she learned a Word of Power right after. Ysmir used to say the feeling of the souls went away after that, and if you brought what I asked, she'll have three more Words to combat the souls with when she wakes up."

"I hope you're right, Delphine," was all he said, following the Grand Mistress as she turned to go back into the cave.

.

* * *

.

His joints were bothering him again, and he devoutly hoped Jori would think to bring him more potions. She was such a sweet girl—hard to imagine her being the fierce warrior the other Blades described. Still, she had to be exceptional for Delphine to have taken an interest in her, and the Grand Mistress had seemed pleased to see her.

It helped having Jori here. She seemed every bit as shocked to see the tiny Dragonborn as he was. She was with the girl now, sitting next to her bedroll with a damp rag, laying it lightly over the child's forehead. The young woman seemed conflicted about something, and in that she was in good company.

Esbern lowered himself onto the bench behind her with a soft groan. Jori looked up, blond hair swinging as she looked up at him worriedly. "I don't think I can make it back up that path," he admitted quietly. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to make my tonic? I'll watch over her."

Jori hesitated a moment, then nodded, standing. "This is wrong," she whispered, looking down at the little girl. "She should be with…with her mother."

"I devoutly wish her mother were here," Esbern said honestly, rubbing his forehead and hoping the child was an orphan—or at least that Delphine had gotten her parent's permission before taking their child. "I understand Delphine's motivations in keeping her, but…you are right. This whole thing feels wrong to me."

Jori smiled and, much to his surprise, leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I'll make your tonic," she said, hurrying off. He couldn't help but smile a bit, wondering what might have been if the Blades hadn't been disbanded and on the run from the Thalmor for the last few decades. He might well have had a grandchild Jori's age right now, were it not for that. He thought he would have liked that.

It had hurt more than he'd ever admitted to lose Ysmir. The teenager had reached out to him, obviously yearning for the family she was denied as a child, and he had felt himself respond to that, thinking of her as a beloved niece, or maybe even daughter. He wasn't sure what fatherhood felt like, but he thought he'd had a father's love for the girl before she turned from them, or at least an uncle's. He had missed her horribly, and more than once wished he had never discovered the whereabouts of Paarthurnax.

The child before him moaned in her sleep, eyelids fluttering, then opening. Esbern felt his mouth go dry, wondering idly if Delphine were hoping a heart attack might take him out of her hair, or if she still had that practical joker streak of her youth. There was no mistaking those eyes. This child was Ysmir's.

Suddenly, some of his newer research started to make sense.

She wailed, hands flying up to clutch her head, a look of terror on her face, and he belatedly remembered his earlier conversation with Delphine. The Words she wanted the girl to know were already written on a folded parchment on the table beside him, and he quickly thrust the note at the child, ignoring the pain of his aging body to kneel beside her. "Here," he urged, "this will quiet them."

Her eyes opened, widening as she saw the Dragon Language etched on the paper, then filled with tears, pushing his hands away. "Stop!" she sobbed, turning from him. "It kills them!"

"If you do not unlock the Words they might destroy your mind," he said hopelessly, frantic for her. He was having some very strong words with Delphine later.

"Let them," she replied quietly, huddling up on her bedroll. "I deserve it."

Esbern frowned, thinking he must have heard her wrong. Primarily because he could count the number of young children he had met who were this articulate on one hand, but also for the words themselves.

"No one deserves to have their mind taken away, little one," he finally managed.

"I ate them," she said, turning to look at him, her expression lost and horrified and positively heart-wrenching. "I ate the souls."

"Yes," he agreed, collecting the discarded rag and wiping her tears with it. "Yes you did."

"Alduin ate souls, too," she said, tears flowing faster. "And he was really, really bad; everyone says so. Now I eat souls." She burst into terror-filled sobs that were muted by the voice potion, and poor Esbern was at a complete loss for what to do. Awkwardly, he pulled the child onto his lap, cuddling her to his chest and letting her cry into his shirt as he hugged her, rubbing her back and making what he hoped were soothing noises. He tried to explain the difference between human and dragon souls, but she wasn't having it. Apparently the girl just could not grasp how dragons were different from humans or elves or beastfolk. It boggled his mind a bit.

Shortly another Blade—a woman named Fjotli who had left a number of younger siblings behind, if he recalled correctly—came to see what was toward and rescued him from the tiny, wailing ball of misery that was the new Dragonborn. Esbern hovered worriedly for a while as the woman took over trying to comfort the girl, until she tartly told him that he could take himself elsewhere, and that the Grand Mistress wanted to see him. Esbern took the excuse and fled, not knowing how to handle a little girl who thought she was evil for being able to eat souls like Alduin could, and apparently thought that now her mother would have no choice but to slay her. He'd tried to tell her that wasn't so, but nothing he had said seemed to get through. At a complete loss and ready to throttle Delphine for not explaining things to the girl first, he hurried off to find the Blade Mistress, glad for once that he lacked all ability to Shout.

.

* * *

.

Fjotli had left her some time ago. Darva sat on the edge of her ledge, staring dully out into the dark cavern. Some Redguard man was with her now, reading by the light of a single candle. When she had refused to sleep he had shrugged and said that it was her choice, but not to complain when she was tired in the morning. They had put the ring around her ankle again, too, so there was no hoping he would get tired and she could sneak away.

She sniffed, wishing she at least had her doll. No one was telling her anything—not where she was, not where Alesan was (other than "camp," which told her nothing at all), and not where her Momma was. Darva desperately wanted to see Ysmir again, but now she was afraid. They had all heard the tale of Ysmir defeating Alduin the World Eater—though Darva sometimes got the feeling that a lot was being left out. They had all been so horrified by the idea that he could eat the dead people, erasing them from existence forever even after they had worked so hard to get into a good afterlife. Now she was just like him, exactly like the worst of the worst, and there was no doubt in her mind that Ysmir would have to enact justice upon her. There weren't enough chores in the world to make up for what she had done.

Of course, Ysmir had apparently done it too, but everyone here was loath to talk about her, so Darva couldn't ask them what they thought of this. She supposed having to save the world gave her mother a free pass for having to stoop to evil's level.

Casting a sideways look at the man, Darva made up her mind. Standing, she walked over to him, hopping up on the bench and waiting for him to notice her, chain dangling from her ankle ring making little clinks that could barely be heard over the ever-present sound of digging. He looked up after a moment, expression doubtful. "Did you need something, Dragonborn?"

She nodded, curls bobbing. They were shiny and soft from where Fjotli had brushed them earlier. Darva was rather glad to be faced with this stranger rather than nice Fjotli right now. "What's your name?" she asked him.

"Rainer," he said, setting his book aside for the moment.

"Are you a good person?" she asked bluntly, taking him aback.

He seemed to consider this for a moment. "I like to think so, though there are some who would disagree. I follow orders, that is all."

She nodded solemnly. "I eat souls," she told him, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips as he told her that he was aware. "Eating souls is bad," she informed him, "And that makes me a bad person now."

Rainer frowned, not liking the turn the conversation was going. "You help us defeat dragons," he told her, "this is no bad thing."

Darva shook her head, wondering why this was so hard for them to grasp, "Dragons are people too," she said, much to his displeasure, "and I hurt them. I'm a very bad person now," she looked up at him, "so it won't matter if I do one more bad thing."

The man backed up a little, wondering at the determined look in her eyes. "What are you talking about, little one?"

Honey Bee took a deep breath. She couldn't Shout, but she could still whisper. Looking back up at Rainer, she locked her violet eyes on his brown ones.

_"Gol Hah."_

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**Hi everyone! I was able to get a chapter written this week! Woo hoo! Still unemployed and so stressed I probably look like a electroshock candidate, but whatever. Day two without coffee and I'm about to fall over, so I apologize if this note is a little rambly.**

**Put another art piece on my deviantart and tumbr, and changed my tumbr name to the same as here, basically. If you want to ask me questions about my fic, or learn about any progress on my publishing endeavors, that's the place to look me up! Also, don't forget to read Beginnings (Ysmir's journey through Helgan) and The Tale of Merric (a look at Miraak's past)! They're both up and begging to be looked at! Each only has three reviews, and my stories are my babies. If you love me, review please.**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new favorites and followers!**

**TigressQueen: I love them too! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter.**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I'm an Esbern fan myself. :) It really hurts when the old grandpa-esque character really disapproves of you letting the other grandpa-esque character live. XD**

**afeleon276: Miraak and Vilkas meeting again will probably involve a lot of glaring, sizing up, and verbal sparing. Physical sparing may or may not happen, depending on the number of children around and if Ysmir is paying attention. At some point, Blaise will want to wear the mask.**

**Wynni: Redemption might be hoping for too much. ;P I've never met your husband, but knowing Miraak, the latter option is more likely. Best they not meet then!**

**.**

**Next chapter:**

**Option 1: Back in the Restoration Trial where the author gives the Dragonborn pair a hard time.**

**Option 2: Back in Whiterun when no sooner do the Brats get home than some uninvited guests show up at Jorrvaskr.**


	68. Chapter 68: Amongst the Dead

The Last Dragonborn watched the First stomp up the corridor before her, jabbing his sword into the alcoves in search of more hidden draugr. The walls glimmered with white enchantments, flickering red, green, and blue every so often. Small Daedric letters danced among the misty light, forbidding the use of any other School. Contrarily, the Restoration Trial had probably killed more would-be Arch Mages than the first two. She'd run out of magicka twice, and only having her dagger on her had allowed her to keep the hoard of undead roaming the corridors from adding her to their number. Well, Miraak was helpful there too, of course. Speaking of which…"Have you finished sulking yet?" she called.

A skeleton lurched at him from across the honeycombed corridor: Miraak battered it to pieces with his gauntlet. "I am not sulking," he declared stiffly.

"Really?" she drawled, stifling a yawn as she stopped to rest in one of the alcoves. It was a shame about the roaming undead filling the Restoration Maze—it was the closest she'd found to a place to sleep. Did Shalidor really expect any mage to be able to ward _all_ these undead away? Most likely not; he probably expected them to have to heal themselves. She surmised that past mages must have been good runners. "I have seven children, Miraak. I can recognize sulking when I see it."

Miraak—ever tireless, apparently—turned to peer at her sullenly as she munched an apple for some energy. This was hardly the first time a ruin had taken days to complete, though she wished now she had waited a night before they undertook the second part of the trial. If they could just make it to the end of the Restoration section, she was going to demand a rest before starting the Conjuration. "I do not want to share you," he told her bluntly.

She shrugged, "It's not your choice."

He ground his jaw, muttering under his breath in Dovahzul, which did delightful things to her, if she was honest. She'd never thought of the Dragon Tongue as being particularly sensual when talking to dragons, but for some reason hearing it from him was positively enticing, even back when he was using it to try to kill her. There was no way he was hearing that from her, though. Chances were he'd find it out soon enough. Honestly, though, she needed to get some sleep before she started fetishizing something else. Ysmir gave a brief prayer to Dibella that this particular fascination constrained itself to Miraak.

"Do you love him?"

"What?" she asked, caught off-guard by the question, especially after her thoughts had gone off on such a tangent. It was getting more and more difficult to keep her mind on just one thing.

"The werewolf," he clarified, sounding a bit peeved that he had to elucidate. The glare he bestowed upon the wall should have had frost forming along the edges. "Do you love him?"

"Farkas? Divines, no! We're good friends—"

"Very good, apparently," he interrupted acidly.

She glowered at him, "—but there's nothing more between us than that. The children think of him as a father, though. Him and Vilkas."

Miraak gave a curt nod, still trying to freeze the wall with his eyes alone, "And him?"

"Vilkas?" she sighed, looking guiltily at her lap as she toyed with the fraying edge of her tunic. "I…we broke it off."

The uneasy regret in her voice brought his regard back to her, brow furrowed. "There's more to it than that," he stated.

She groaned. "I'm not sure it's your business."

He paused, turning to fully face her and tilting his head a bit. "You're 'not sure' it's my business?" he repeated, contemplating her phrasing. His expression cleared abruptly, and she nodded, miserably.

"It was because of you," she confirmed before he could even ask. "And…and because he could tell that I…I had feelings for you." Hugging herself, she glanced away, examining the alcove across from her. For some reason it kept drawing her gaze.

"But you didn't reciprocate his," he surmised, and held up his hands when she leveled him a sharp look. His reassurance that he wasn't reading her mind again was lost as another large draugr ambled around the corner and spotted them, lifting its dented shield and rushing the former Dragon Priest. Miraak blocked its sword strike with his staff, bringing his sword around to bash against the shield, tentacle lashing out around the draugr's unprotected back.

The shambling corpse yowled, then spat into its opponent's face, _"Qiilaan us dilon!"_

_"Zu'u qiilaan wah nid gein!"_ Miraak snarled right back.

The hulking draugr pushed against Miraak's block, which held. It appeared they were planning on overtaking each other with brute strength. Ysmir watched a moment, smothering another yawn and downing a swallow of stamina potion before simply walking around the pair and sinking her dagger into the center of the gash left by the tentacle. The desiccated heart jolted, then crumbled to ash as she yanked the weapon back out.

Miraak's irate expression was lost on her as she returned to her pack, "I was handling it."

"I've seen Argis and Farkas arm-wrestle for hours; I didn't feel like waiting around for you two to do something similar."

"Argis?" Miraak repeated, sounding even more irate, "Who's Argis?"

She threw her apple core at him, "My Housecarl!"

"Anything else?" he inquired, not bothering to hide the insinuation.

"Well I doubt he'd make a good farmer," she retorted, leaning against the wall. "Are you always going to be like this?" Telling him that he was reminding her strongly of Vilkas probably wouldn't go over well. Still, she was tempted.

"Yes," he admitted tersely. "We're both dragons, Ysmir. We may look human, but dragons are what we are. I do not see why you bother keeping human lovers."

"Now that I have you, you mean?" she asked archly.

"Do you really need anyone else?" he replied, and though the question was arrogant, she thought she detected a hint of plaintiveness behind the words.

"No one can be all things to one person—that's why there _are_ so many people in our lives. I'm not going to pledge myself to loving only one person in my lifetime, especially since it might be closer to an elven lifespan than a human," she paused, not wanting to chase that particular thought further. "People change._ I've_ changed. I'm nothing like when I came to Skyrim. I can't really imagine the person I'll be in ten years, either. A single day, an instant, and everything that I had been was remade. What is the point in making a binding oath to stay together when the next day could bring about a complete reversal of everything that you are, simply through circumstance? What if something happens to make us hate each other? Is it right to be bound to one another through such transformations?"

"I'm over four thousand years old, Ysmir. I'm pretty sure my personality is set," he told her dryly. "Personally, I think your issue with this has less to do with anticipating changes, and more to do with fearing a repeat of what your first marriage would have been."

She jerked like he had slapped her, eyes going round as her lips parted slightly, unable to formulate a response.

"You were property to him—nothing more than a means to an end, and a body to use and bear. Perhaps not even that, given elven birth rates. Any children you might have eventually had and grown to love would probably have been poisoned in their cradle by the children from his former wives." He snorted, idly turning the draugr's dented shield in his hands as if reading something important from it. "Most of them were old enough to be your parents, and you their new stepmother. Probably for the best that most of them burned to death the night of your escape," he mused, tossing the shield aside. It clattered off the wall and rolled down the corridor.

Ysmir swallowed, "How do you know that?"

"There haven't' been that many relatives of Elder Councilmen who burned in their own house," he answered. "Even less that did so on their wedding night."

She closed her eyes, staring into the shadowed recess, "Do they know?" she finally asked the question that had been haunting her all along. "Are they looking for me?"

A pause. "No," he finally said, and she realized he was studying her. "Now, are you going to answer my question?"

"Huh?" she managed, so relieved she could barely think straight.

Miraak looked aggrieved, "Do you have feelings for any of your other lovers?"

She shook her head, "Not like you mean."

"Then why bother?" he asked, thoroughly exasperated.

"Because I do like them, and it's enjoyable, and perhaps one day I might. I have before. I'm never dishonest with possible partners, Miraak. This is how I am. I…" she hesitated, then decided a small admission might curb his curiosity, "when I'm with just one person for very long, I tend to start finding all their faults, until they start to irritate me, whether I'm in a relationship with them or not. I can't help it. So I surround myself with different people, and that part of myself that is always analyzing is reminded that those flaws are normal."

"You're in luck then; I have very few flaws," he declared.

Ysmir stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment before she gave up trying to tell if he was being serious. "Miraak, you are more likely to drive me insane than anyone else I've ever met, including both my children and the Mad God." He looked surprised for a moment, then startled her by lifting his staff and firing. With a yelp, she fell back into the alcove she had been examining, while Miraak charged the spectral rogue that had crept up behind her, silent as death itself.

The assassin ripped her arm out of the mass of tentacles, dodging his sword. Crouching, she hissed, _"There is someone living amongst the dead."_

Reflecting that he'd never met dead quite as chatty as in this maze—at least, muttering to someone _besides_ themselves—Miraak slashed over her head, casting a group of tentacles slightly to her left. His surmise proved true, and the ghost rolled right into the poisoned, writhing tendrils, shrieking. A stroke of his sword ended her misery, though he was unsure for how long. Curious that Ysmir hadn't chided him yet, he turned.

She was nowhere to be found.

Frowning, he walked over to the alcove she had fallen into, examining it critically. With an impatient motion, he yanked the crumbling fur from the resting place, revealing a recessed button. Newly ground grooves in the floor proved that the wall had spun on its axis, and further prodding of the trigger revealed it to be locked.

Miraak stood back with a sigh, examining the situation. Even using the recesses as a ladder, the wall was too high for anyone to climb, and too heavy to push, even if it wasn't locked into place. He would have to try to meet her further on. "That woman has more ways of getting out of a conversation," he muttered, hefting her bag and continuing on.

.

* * *

.

Ysmir had a growing list of things she was going to do to Shalidor should he ever have the misfortune to meet her. As she rubbed crushed snowberries on her exposed skin and examined her state of affairs, she thought convincing a Flame Atronach that he was in love with her might do the trick for this particular offense.

The platform she stood on tilted with her weight, which she hastily adjusted before it could allow more of the molten stone it floated in to cover the top. It was narrow enough without coating half of it with lava. The sides of the corridor were deep, putting her at least a story below where she and Miraak had been. So the Restoration Maze had several levels. Perfect. Just what they needed. What kind of mages had Shalidor been expecting through here, anyway? Had she not instinctively Shouted to become ethereal as she fell, she would have, at the very least, been badly burned upon her landing.

Placing one foot before the other as carefully as possible to avoid wobbling the stone raft, Ysmir began walking forward. The hall wasn't that long, by most standards, but it felt as if this were taking forever. The very air singed her, inside and out, forcing her to keep a steady flow of healing energy just to keep going. At last, she reached the end of the corridor, casting about in either direction.

Identical corridors branched to both sides of her, and through the haze of heat she could barely make out that they turned opposite ways at the end.

With a heavy sigh, she turned right so that she would at least be heading in roughly the same direction as they had been heading before she fell down here. Hopping gingerly from one platform to the other, she glanced up just in time to duck the fireball that arched toward her head.

Melted rock sloshed sluggishly over the sides of the platform as she tried to find her balance, glancing up incredulously at the Flame Atronach that danced at the end of the corridor behind her. Snapping up her ward, she observed it for a moment, idly wondering if there had once been a spell for resisting fire. She could think of no reason for the Restoration Trial to be this harrowing unless the school had once been much broader than it currently was.

Still, the prevention of use of the other schools probably meant that she wasn't supposed to fight the Atronach, just withstand it. Glad she'd learned wards in Alinor rather than Skyrim, which neglected to protect the back, she turned and made her tentative way down the corridor, careful to ensure her ward never slipped. Halfway to the turn, the assault stopped, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the dancing figure glide gracefully around the opposite corner.

Ysmir grinned slightly and popped a few more of the snowberries she had plucked on the way here into her mouth. She could manage this.

.

* * *

.

Miraak battered another skeleton out of his path, swinging his staff in a wide arch to knock the skulls off most of the ones surrounding him. The corridor he had been walking down had curled in a wide bow, ending abruptly in a larger, circular section. For a moment he had been alarmed, thinking he had reached the end without Ysmir, but there was no sign of the Conjuration sigil. Skittering above him drew his eyes upwards, only to encounter a tangle of thick webbing that formed a ceiling of sorts, rather than the open space or stone ceiling that covered roughly half the corridors. As he stood in the entrance, the skeletons littering the ground began to get to their feet, hampered by webbing and bits of cloth that resembled mage robes.

Suddenly Miraak realized just why there were so_ many_ undead in the Restoration Trial.

The failed mages lurched toward him, some with spells at the ready, other lifting staves long out of charge. A few came at him with their bare hands. The twinge of pity he felt for the long-dead students didn't mitigate his blows any, and he battered them apart and made his way through. Five steps into the room, the promised Frostbite Spider descended.

She was huge, as befitting her age, though by the sounds above them she was hardly the only arachnid in the webs. Twitching her massive front legs in challenge, she prepared to spit her poison at him.

Miraak didn't give her a chance. _"Wuld Nah Kest!"_ he Shouted, raising his sword to dismember the beast as he passed, too fast for her to react. He whirled at the end of his run, reversing his sword to chop her thorax from the rest of her. Gurgling a peculiar scream, she died, piteously fast and before her venom even hit the ground.

An ice spike exploded off his pauldron. Miraak spun, sword extending to take out the skeletal mage firing at him. Curiously, none of the grabbers were coming near him, and for a few moments he kept them all at bay, fielding spells he was annoyed they were able to cast and he wasn't, thanks to that damned enchantment. As lightning crackled off his ward he paused, examining them. They hung back, content to fling spells at him from a distance. He took a step forward, out from under the circle of netting in the very center of the room.

That had a definite reaction. The undead swarmed him, too fast for him to cut them all down as desiccated flesh held a few together still. They pushed at him, clung to him like frightened children, making him stagger back into the circle. Miraak had never learned to banish more than the weakest of undead, preferring just to do away with them, though this room seemed designed for the use of Guardian Circle. Casting his weak banishing spell proved useless, since mages that had gotten this deep were far from weak in life. Curiously, they didn't seem to want to attack him now, simply prevent him from leaving that spot.

A clanking from above was all the warning he had.

A spear ripped through the webbing above, lodging in the mage holding his arm. Its grip slackened, and it slid down the massive projectile, no longer moving. This seemed to galvanize the other undead, as one that had been firing spells grabbed his sword arm, and another took the place of the one that had been impaled. Struggling to move, Miraak peered up through the webbing to see a Dwemer Ballista standing on the level above, still but for an internal cranking sound.

_"Fus Ro Dah!" _

His thu'um hit the Ballista at the same moment something inside snapped with a twang. The heavy automaton went flying, crashing down somewhere out of his sight.

Something trickled down his stomach. Miraak looked down in disbelief. A spear jutted from his gut, pinning two undead to him, their arms wrapped around his waist as if to welcome him to their number.

The former Dragon Priest ripped them from him. They fell to the ground as the others stood around listlessly, waiting for him to die. Falling to his knees, Miraak grasped both hands around the spear grimly, then yelled in pain as he pulled it from his body, collapsing forward as it clattered to the floor. Blood splattered down after it, creating a dull little puddle below him. He felt scales prick through his skin, and concentrated a moment, halting their progression. The dripping slowed, then stopped.

The dead surrounding him waited. Miraak grinned darkly, almost a snarl, as he looked up at the undead mage that seemed to be the leader. "I have a surprise for you."

.

* * *

.

Four turns after dropping into the lava corridors, and she reached another branching section. To the right was impassable—the platform had sunk into the lava. Ysmir moaned, for through the steam in that direction she could see a ramp leading upward. It was steep, and centered by one of the razor-edged pinwheels she'd encountered in Dwemer ruins, but it was a way up.

Something hissed behind her. Whipping her head around, Ysmir just managed to duck under a lunge by a fire wraith, the first she had seen not summoned by her Fire Breath. The glowing serpentine form curved, turning to come at her again, and she rolled backwards, skin burning through her clothes as it came in contact with the hot stone, though her moonstone mail thankfully didn't conduct heat nearly as well as more conventional materials. Gritting her teeth against the pain she leapt to her feet, running out of stone abruptly and having to hop to the next raft, rushing onward as her weight forced the stone to dip below the level of the lava. For once, she wished for a frost cloak.

The Dragonborn paused, then summoned her flame cloak, proving in her own mind once and for all that it was no spell. Immediately the hot air affected her less, as the cloak protected her from its own heat. The wraith halted mid-strike, bobbing a bit suspiciously as it examined her. Ysmir took a slow step towards it, and it backed up a pace, unsure. For a long moment they simply gazed at each other, then the wraith floated off, convinced she was another creature of its element. She watched it for another second, pondering what to do next, then carefully made her way back to the edge of the final platform, regarding the sunken one cautiously.

The steam above it seemed to bend strangely, and she tossed a septim through the distortion. Nothing happened, and she heaved a relieved sigh. Backing up a few paces, then glancing back to ensure the fire wraith wasn't watching, she took a deep breath of hot air and cast it back as ice. _"Fo Krah Diin!"_

Wishing she was able to Shout again immediately, Ysmir cautiously put her foot on the path of barely cooled rock she had just created. It cracked ominously, but held. A glance at the edges proved it wouldn't last long enough for her to _thu'um_ to come back. Dashing out, Ysmir stayed over the platform as much as possible, dodging jets of steam and the distortion in the middle.

It reached out and grabbed her.

She yelped, losing her footing and, for one awful moment, pictured herself plunging through her rapidly diminishing ground and into the lava below, but the distortion held her fast, lifting her off the path as it coalesced into a specter.

_"You!"_ he snarled into her face. _"You vile traitor! You left me! You left me here to die!"_ Shaking her by the shoulders roughly, he laughed, _"Well, I won't die. I'm going to get out and become Arch-Mage. You'll see."_

"I'm not who you think," Ysmir told him as persuasively as she could, clinging to his arms as the rock below her dangling feet melted back into the surrounding lava. "I don't even know you."

_"Don't lie to me!"_ he raged.

Gazing about frantically through the curls of vapor being fanned by the turning blades, Ysmir noticed the wraith taking interest, undulating slowly toward them. If the ghost dropped her to deal with it… "Yes, fine. I'm sorry. Let's go somewhere and talk about this, alright?"

Another hollow laugh. _"You want to leave? So did I!"_ he spat, tossing her at the twirling fan.

She screamed, and the wraith acted, attacking the ghost as the blades cut long gashes across her leg and hit her shoulders, catching and sliding off her chainmail, only narrowly avoiding taking her head. Landing beneath it, she jerked her feet upwards as the leather began to burn where it hit the edge of the lava pool. Her vision blurred with pain as the mounting pin of the spinning trap caught her shoulder on its downward progression, taking her with it for a mercifully short distance. Grabbing the bar as it began to climb, she let it drag her up the steep slope, the stone becoming blessedly cooler as they ascended. Nearing the top, she let continue upwards as she slithered sideways, tears of agony leaking from her eyes. When it finally made its way down again, she staggered to her knees, then crawled out, unable to stand on her leg. The moment she was clear she examined the wound. It was deep, but had missed the main artery, and she spared a moment to thank every god individually, even the elven ones.

_"Bolog aaz, mal lir!"_

Ysmir ducked as a battered, ancient battle-ax swung down where her head had been, rolling to the other side of the branching corridor. Drawing her dagger, she swung it at the draugr's ankles, hamstringing it, then grabbed the front of its cuirass. "Isn't it time you died, already?" she growled at it, shoving it away while kicking it with her good leg onto the incline. It stumbled just in time for the blades to return, severing its legs at the knee. With a howl of rage, it rolled down to the level below.

Biting back sobs of pain, Ysmir uncorked a small healing potion and poured it into her wound, holding it closed with slippery fingers as she pulled the cork from a blue bottle with her teeth, downing the first magicka potion she could find and setting to work, digging for another. The blades had been rusty; she poured a disease cure on as well. When it had closed as much as it was going to without help, she glanced around. There was a niche about as deep as a corridor was wide, closed off by a portcullis. Inside was a switch that probably turned off the trap. Some searching turned up no way to open the door except a single chain pull inside the thing itself. Since she didn't fancy having her arm pulled off as well, she retrieved the dropped battle-ax the draugr had tried to kill her with and used it to poke through the bars and pull the chain, unconcerned when it was broken in half as the door lifted up.

Once safely inside with the door firmly shut between her and the denizens of the maze, Ysmir painfully shook off the rags of her robes and boots. The shoulders of her mage robe were completely charred off from the heat of the stone she had landed on. Carefully she unthreaded the leather thong weaving through the sides of the mail, holding the links together. Normally, mail was all one piece, but as someone who had needed medical attention from time to time, Ysmir opted for a more easily removed version. She blessed that decision now, for removing the chain from her burnt flesh nearly made her pass out, and the effort reopened the wound on her thigh. Tying her hair up was a necessary chore, for she didn't want that getting embedded in her skin, either.

When she was bare from the waist up, she sprinkled some Fire Salts over her shoulder, hissing at the pain, then followed it with more health potions, two to drink and one to pour over her shoulders. Her magicka wasn't coming back like it should, and she wasn't sure if the blades had been poisoned or if her exhaustion was to blame. Most of her supplies were back with Miraak, and she dearly needed them. Still, her Restoration skill was high enough that, had she been close to death, a spell would automatically flare to bring back some health. Grimly, she wondered if she should perhaps stab her arm or something, just to get that to trigger. She couldn't be far from that point.

Fatigue swept over her, and she leaned her arm against the wall, the cool stone soothing on the minor burn of her skin, like a sunburn. As her magicka trickled back and she cast what she could, the flesh on her back, thigh, and heels gradually knit back together. Without another healer she was probably going to scar, and badly, but it was only a matter of time before someone who faced dragons on a regular basis was burned, really. Only, she had expected it to be from dragons.

"Ysmir!"

She opened her eyes with the realization that she had either passed out or dozed off. Either of which was not normal for her and was slightly embarrassing to admit to. No wonder that long-ago Arch-Mage had built a decoy maze if this was what all his students were throwing themselves at!

"Ysmir!" Miraak cried again, and she looked up into his frightened face, suddenly realizing that she must truly look seconds from death for even Miraak to be wearing that expression. Even his dragon scales were pale.

"I lost a fight to a lava pit," she tried to joke. Miraak _tsk_ed, apparently deciding that her wounds looked worse than they were if she were still able to make wisecracks. He used the cut-off handle of the battle-axe to reach the ring of the chain pull and release the door, allowing him entry. "Please tell me you brought my stuff?" she queried plaintively.

"Where else are you going to get apple cores to throw at my head?" he countered, closing the portcullis and ripping his gauntlets off, gently turning her to see the worst of the damage. His sharp intake of breath was the opposite of reassuring. Faint gold reflected off the walls as he started healing the burns; she felt blood trickling down her back as the blisters burst.

The first thing she pulled out was her waterskin, drinking thirstily. Her throat felt raw and scorched all the way down to her lungs, and the slightly leathery tasting water was as welcome as if it came from a fresh spring. The next was a Resist Fire potion, which tasted less divine but did the job, followed by a healing potion. She sagged forward, catching herself on her hands. She couldn't feel her back anymore, other than a bit of pressure as Miraak wiped it down with the tattered remains of her shirt. The strands of hair that slipped their knot to fall beside her face trembled, and she realized she was shivering. Another dig through her pack produced a shirt and a new mage robe. Pulling on the shirt, she hesitated over the mail, which seemed to grow heavier the longer she was down here, then sighed, shoulders slumping.

"I need to rest," she admitted, feeling like she'd lost a competition.

"If you hadn't, I would have hit you over the head," he told her acidly, but his face was still pale. "Even the Stamina spells can only do so much."

Her eyebrows rose, "There were stamina spells?" His long-suffering sigh was all the answer she needed.

Ysmir glanced down, still shivering slightly, then yipped a bit when he abruptly pulled her sideways, cradling her against his chest. He was warm, and she found herself relaxing again as the shivering stopped. "I never would have pegged you as being cuddly," she teased lightly.

Miraak stiffened. "I am not cuddly," he protested.

Too tired to protest, she just smiled slightly, "Whatever you say," she replied agreeably, then her eyes widened, fingers plucking at the fabric of his robe. "This is blood," she realized, sitting up slightly to examine the stain better. A hole the size of both her fists marred his robes, under the right ribcage.

"There were a lot of undead out there," he sighed, also sounding like he was admitting something he'd rather not. "There was a wide space further on where they could all come at you at once."

Spreading her hand over the unmarred skin beneath the rent, she surmised with a slight churning of her gut, "You don't get injured anymore, do you?"

"No," he confirmed, not liking what he saw in her expression and pulling her back down. "My injuries heal right away." Otherwise, it was very unlikely he would have made it through.

"Lucky," she muttered, already drifting off. For the moment, at least, it was safe enough to rest.

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**I hope you've all had a good week! I was really glad to get this chapter done, especially with everything that's going on! No job still, unfortunately, but sort of stay-at-home-big-sistering. And another trip to the hospital, which was not fun. Everyone is fine; don't worry. I also went to another joust with my boyfriend, who got to do a demonstration, and I got a shirt that says "Squire" even though I'm technically not. :) It's a small, too; I haven't fit into a small since high school!**

**That said, this is a very long chapter. Perhaps one of the longest I've written, but it was irritating to break up. I hope it helps make up for not posting weekly anymore. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome, new followers and favorites! **

**Sevvyn: Careful; Miraak might hire you as his daughter's personal motivational speaker. ;P**

**musicmidnight: Now that you mention it, I've seen that a lot too. Kind of weird, since Miraak's dialogue at the Summit of Apocrypha indicate that he holds the Last Dragonborn in high esteem. Given his personality, he wouldn't have hesitated to mock the Dragonborn if he thought he/she were lacking in wit. Huh. Well, I'm pleased you are enjoying this. :) I've been cutting bad foods out of my diet and coloring, which is supposed to be like meditation for those with itchy fingers. **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I've inadvertently set up a kick-the-cutie moment a time or two. :( I didn't mean to do that. However, when it comes to innocence, Darva is the only one that has yet to experience the harshness of life in Skyrim. The others gained a reprieve from it for awhile, and they'll eventually return to it (except possibly Aventus). Mostly, they weren't supposed to have parts this big in the story, but they sort of weaseled their way into their own little sub-plots.**

**Wynni: No dumping Miraak, I like him too much. :P As for Delphine, funny you should ask...**

**afeleon276: Bend Will wears off according to the strength of the user. Miraak's lasted for months, but logically he renewed it from time to time. Poor Esbern doesn't know how to handle this at all!**

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**Next Chapter: The Brats return to Whiterun for some awkward family reunions and, in the case of a certain Jarl's son, awkward feelings. Oh, and unexpected visitors that shall not be named. :D**


	69. Chapter 69: Homecoming

Frothar leaned back against the door with a sigh, dark eyes roving the room he shared with Nelkir in Dragonsreach. It felt like years since he had seen it, but had been mere weeks. Hardly a month. Less than a month, and it felt as if their father had scarcely recognized them. That was to be expected, Frothar supposed, since he hardly recognized them either. He didn't even recognize the tired-eyed boy that looked back at him from the polished sheet of metal hanging on the wall.

When they had arrived in Whiterun everyone had been overjoyed. Lars's family had been gruffly happy to see him, clapping him on the back more like he had come home from a good sword lesson than from a life-threatening kidnapping. Braith had looked bewildered when her parents embraced her tearfully, hesitantly hugging them back with tears in her own eyes. The pretty mage woman with a dislike for all weathers had taken Runa into Jorrvaskr as they passed through the Gildergreen square, but she'd managed a little half-smile and a wave to them before she was pulled inside.

Then they had climbed the stairs to Dragonsreach, looking up at the only home they had ever known. Frothar had the bewildering sensation of realizing it was really quite a big place—at the same time, it felt smaller than he remembered. He'd never been aware of its size, only that it was bigger than the houses of the city. Still, the moment he'd walked inside, it was as if the walls wanted to press in on him, especially as he saw his father standing breathlessly at the top of the stairs just inside, eyes wide and anxious.

Dagny had started crying the moment they saw the city, but at the sight of their father she had wailed like he had never heard and flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist as Balgruuf's eyes widened in shock. The bandages were off her hands by now, but she still had a small, circular scar just at the base of her palm which she kept running her thumb over, occasionally glancing at it with a rather lost look on her face.

Balgruuf had hugged each of them in turn, holding them tightly and asking if they were alright. Frothar hadn't known how to answer. They'd each had a long bath, the washwater needing to be changed twice before it stopped turning brown with the accumulated filth, even though they had briefly dipped in a river on the way here. Frothar had scrubbed himself raw, coming out looking pink and pale as Dangy used to. The castle cook had prepared all their favorites for dinner, but he hardly tasted it as he wolfed it down, not realizing how hungry the journey had made him until he looked up from what he had thought was more than enough food to see that he had done everything but lick his plate clean. He'd even eaten spiced beans, and he detested those.

Nelkir had picked at his food at first before intercepting a worried look from Balgruuf, then sighed and politely ate what was put before him, though he made a point of asking for the soup. Frothar had personally had more than enough of soups and stews—both made a small amount of meat go further, and so had been fairly common in Melka's tower. He even knew how to make a few now. The dinner was slightly awkward, made worse by Balgruuf hesitantly asking them about their time away, and even Irileth gently prodding them to speak.

The worst part was when Fianna placed a plate of rare venison in front of Dagny. The girl had looked at the still slightly bloody meat and paled, pushing it away quickly and saying she would prefer some vegetables, if that was alright. The entire table had gone silent. Frothar wasn't sure if it was because his sister had refused her favorite food, or because she had rejected it politely. Finally, Farengar had wordlessly passed her a bowl of vegetable stew from the platter Gerda had just brought in, and the dinner had resumed.

Frothar sank onto his bed, continuing to sink until the plush mattress held. It was so soft that he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to sleep on it. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, pondering the anxious awkwardness that hung over his entire family, until the sound of the door closing recaptured his attention.

Nelkir was pale. "She won't talk to me," he said flatly. "The Whispering Lady. I asked if she knew if Melka would come for us again, and she just started laughing. She wouldn't stop, no matter what I asked or how long I waited. She just kept laughing."

His older brother frowned. "You shouldn't talk to her, Nelkir. Nothing she has told you has ever made you happy, it's just made you more and more miserable."

"But she's never lied to me," the boy said fiercely, blue eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "She's never told me I was too young to understand, and not to worry about it. She's never treated me like I was stupid."

"You _are_ young, Nelkir," Frothar said with a sigh. "There are some things adults won't tell us, because they don't want us to have to understand yet. It doesn't mean they think we can't, they just want us to feel safe a little longer."

"Look where that got us," he replied acidly, flopping down on his bed and blinking in surprise as he sank into it. "We shouldn't get our hopes up with Melka still around. You'd think Companions could manage to kill a Hag."

Frothar shrugged. "Not much a warrior can do when their opponent turns into a bird and flies away. Anyway, I don't think she'll be able to get us again."

"And why's that? Because she can only get 'bad' children, like Lars said? Did Lars ever strike you as being particularly bad? I'm going to ask Farengar to teach me some spells. I'm not going next time without a fight."

"Do what you have to," Frothar replied, wrinkling his nose a bit at the idea of magic. He'd rather feel the weight of a sword, truth be told: Swords were reassuringly real, while magic might fail. Like most warriors, Frothar would much rather be defeated because his opponent was more skilled than because some reservoir of magic inside him ran out at the wrong time.

It took them longer than normal, but eventually the long day and full bellies caught up with them—not that they had ever gone hungry, but they hadn't been able to stuff themselves—and fell asleep. Frothar awoke with the dawn, as he had become accustomed to in the Towers. There was a long moment when he wasn't sure where he was before he remembered. Then he had to wonder if it were all a dream, but when he looked at his hands there were more calluses there than one got simply wielding a wooden blade, and his shoulders and arms had more muscle from endless hours chopping wood or moving rubble from a blocked hallway that "Petra, damn her eyes" had collapsed.

A glance over at Nelkir proved him to still be deeply asleep. Apparently he'd had the same trouble with the bed that his elder brother had, for he was curled up on the floor beside it in a small nest of furs. He looked a bit cold. Frothar levered himself out of bed as quietly as he could, draping his own fur over Nelkir before going over to open his wardrobe and look doubtfully at his clothing. He frowned as he examined them, for he hadn't realized how many embroidered or patterned garments he owned. The clothing the servants had brought him yesterday had been too tight across the shoulders, so he supposed he would be getting new soon; he'd have to ask for some plainer shirts. Perhaps Nelkir would like some of these, or Lars. He shied away from the thought of what Ventis would have thought of them. Pulling out the biggest, plainest one he could find, he pulled it over his head and yanked on a pair of simple wool trousers. The shirt went with a brocade vest that was supposed to be tied with a sash, Cyrodiil-style, but alone it was a solid light green, with only a little embroidery at the hems in an endless knot. He belted it instead and examined his wavy reflection. It would have to do. Running his hands through his hair a few times, he grabbed his boots and went out the door.

Fianna actually dropped a plate when she saw him up and about this early, then gawked at him when he immediately bent to help her clean it up before recollecting herself. "That's all right, young lord, I can do that."

"Already done," he said, handing her the pieces of the plate, piled atop the largest section with most of the scant amount of food that had still been on it. He couldn't help but smile at the look on her face and went into the Great Hall, where Balgruuf sat with Irileth at the High Table, talking quietly. They didn't appear to notice his approach, or when he stopped to examine them, a slight frown creasing his brows. They were angled toward each other when there was no need to be, since they would hardly disturb anyone by speaking a bit louder. Even if the matter were politically sensitive, no one else was about, and they could order the servants away. Then his father lightly put his hand over hers, expression fierce and earnest as he said something. Irileth shook her head and lightly pulled her hand from his, face conflicted as she apparently excused herself and stood to leave.

He had never seen the Housecarl panicked before, but that was the only name he could put to the expression on her face when she saw him standing there. Perhaps once he would have been angry, but at the moment he wasn't sure what to feel. After all, Nelkir was proof that Balgruuf's heart hadn't died with his wife, even if no one admitted it. His father had a right to have feelings, he was hardly inhuman. Irileth had never not been nice to any of them, though he wasn't entirely sure she liked them. Given that they had apparently been horrid enough to warrant abduction by a Hagraven he couldn't say he blamed her.

"Good morning Irileth, Father," he said, nodding to them both as if he hadn't seen a thing.

"Good morning, Frothar," Irileth managed after a moment. Balgruuf just watched him in dismay as he took a seat across from the jarl, snagging a roll and buttering it. He had missed butter—it tended to go off very quickly in the Tower, despite the slight chill.

"You're up early," Balgruuf finally stated.

Frothar shrugged, "I'm used to it now. I don't really know what time it is, though."

"Before eight," his father said, and Frothar nearly dropped his roll.

"Really? Are people in the city up yet, do you think?" he asked, grabbing another roll and more butter. For some reason he was ravenous, and planned on taking full advantage of the assortment of pasties and pastries before him.

"Many of them have been up for at least an hour," his father replied, watching him keenly. Irileth hadn't moved, eyes still trained on him warily.

"Do you think people are up in Jorrvaskr?" he asked, hoping the growing heat in his cheeks wasn't turning them pink.

"I honestly don't know," the Jarl responded. "Why do you want to know?"

He looked away, taking the time to chew. "Irileth," he said, ignoring it when she twitched, "if you're going to keep staring at me, could you at least sit while doing it?" He watched as she sat carefully down in her former seat, not missing that she moved it several inches away from his father when she pulled it back. "One of the others went there yesterday. I was thinking of visiting."

Balgruuf's face cleared a bit. "I see. It's good to see you making a friend. I take it he wants to be a Companion? Or were they just keeping him there until he could be returned to his family?"

Frothar flushed. "Yes, she does want to be a Companion," he said, wishing his father's eyebrows hadn't shot up and that he and Irileth hadn't exchanged such a pointed look. "When they came to get us she called one of them Papa." Actually, she'd called two of them papa, which had confused him no end. The big one had been friendly enough—not that they weren't both big, but one was a tad taller than the other, with slightly bigger shoulders—but the other had kept giving him calculating looks all through the ride back. That had stopped after Rorikstead, though, when some other big Nord man had recognized Runa and pulled the two men aside, talking earnestly. Everyone had been rather grim after that. The town of Rorikstead had been bad enough—apparently a citizen of the small community had recently been assassinated. His two girls were still in the inn, preparing to go to Riften. They had both been thin and hollow-eyed, not wanting to talk. Then the thinner one had gone still, staring at the trio of men talking in the corner. Slipping out of her seat, she'd padded over, tugged at the shorter one's hand, and told him something that drained all the blood from his face.

They hadn't spent the night at the inn, as planned. Instead, they had all bundled into the wagon after dinner and rode through the night, arriving at Whiterun late the next afternoon.

Balgruuf pressed his fingers together, forming a triangle with his hands as he tapped his lips thoughtfully. "Tell me about her," he encouraged.

Feeling as if his head spontaneously caught fire, Frothar carefully peeled an egg before answering. "Her name is Runa. She's a Nord, and Melka picked her up when she ran away from home to join the Companions. She can probably do it too—she's good enough that she actually managed to teach Lars Battle-Born how to fight."

"Ah," was all Balgruuf said, a slight smile on his face.

"Anyway," Frothar hopped up, suddenly no longer hungry. "I thought I'd pay them a visit. I'll see you two later," he added, walking rapidly away from the table before they could ask any more questions, finishing his egg on the move.

The sun hit him with gentle benevolence when he opened the door, hoping the slight chill would cool his cheeks before he reached Jorrvaskr. To his surprise, he nearly walked right into the last person he expected. Runa jumped back to avoid the collision, eyes wide. Her hair was down for once, just the front pulled away from her face and shining golden in the morning light, her eyes more green than brown today. She wore a long blue tunic and trews rather than a dress, a steel dagger belted at her waist.

"Are you alright?" he asked, shaking off his paralysis long enough to notice the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her face.

"My sister is missing," she said, eyes gleaming in a way that suggested she was fighting back tears.

"Melka?" he asked, frowning and starting forward. She followed, walking beside him until he left the walkway to sit on the top edge of the double pool.

"No. Sofie is…well, except for how shy she is, she'd pretty much perfect. It's kind of disgusting some days, actually," she replied, sinking down next to him and gazing at the Gildergreen.

"So that's a family trait, then?" he spoke before he thought, then realized it and flushed.

Runa looked surprised, cheeks turning a flattering shade of pink before she gave him a wan smile. "I wouldn't know; we're pretty much all adopted."

"Where was she last?" he asked, trying to be helpful but having no idea what to do.

"She was in Jorrvaskr. Apparently one day they just realized that no one had seen her in two nights and went to check the Temple of Kynareth, but they hadn't seen her either. Each had thought she was at the other place," she scrubbed hastily at her eyes, glaring at the tree as if it somehow could be blamed for the disappearance. "Aunt Aela and Argis went after her, but they have neither returned nor sent word back. Kodlak is beside himself."

She was on first-name basis with the Harbinger of the Companions? Somehow, Frothar found he wasn't all that surprised. Shaking his head, he looked up and frowned slightly. "That's odd," he noted, watching as several people ran frantically through the square, looking for places to hide. Light flashed off metal as a man in scaled armor topped the stairs from the market, a sword in one hand and a floating ball of red light in the other. A guard ran toward him, drawing his sword, only to turn and flee when the man threw the red ball. Several other armored people crowded the square behind him, weapons drawn. Without stopping, they headed up the stairs to Jorrvaskr.

Runa leapt to her feet. "Those aren't Companions," she stated, horrified.

That quickly became apparent when a Dark Elf opened the door, blinked at them in surprise, and was instantly ran through before he could react. Runa cried out in horror, her hands coming up to cover her mouth as she stared. The warriors stepped over him and entered the mead hall, almost half of them inside before they were halted, the rest wasting no time running to the back. Eorlund Grey-Mane ran down with a warhammer to stop their progress, but he was outnumbered eight to one and losing ground quickly.

About the time Frothar realized this he noticed Runa wasn't beside him anymore.

She paused mid-way down the steps, ripping a bow from a cowering guard and commandeering his quiver, taking aim at the man about to take a swipe at the blacksmith. The blow never fell as he staggered back, arrow from his left bicep. Another followed the first, and shields were raised as most of the fighters began backing around the building and away from her fire. Most of them.

One man snarled at her, leaping the dividing wall between Jorrvaskr and the Gildergreen square and heading straight for her as he blocked her fire with his shield. Still, she persisted, lodging an arrow in his thigh and grazing his calf before he reached her, drawing her dagger swiftly, face utterly determined.

She didn't quite have to test that determination yet. The moment the man paused, about to say something, Frothar shouldered him off the walkway and into the pool beneath it. An arrow from an unaffected guard ensured he never left it.

"Thanks," Runa said heavily.

"Don't mention it," he replied breathlessly, entirely meaning it. If his father ever found out he had attacked a man with nothing but his bare hands he'd never hear the end of it. "I need to borrow these," he told the bespelled guard, taking his sword and shield. Runa looked surprised, then smiled, making his stomach feel a bit strange. "Let's go," he said gruffly, heading down the stairs.

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**I seem to have developed a bad habit in making cliffhangers, huh? :) Next chapter should be completely done by next week, though. **

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! I'd like to remind everyone that you can post a review even if you aren't a member. It really encourages me to write and your feedback often gives me ideas. Also, if you want to talk to me about Dragon Kin or Skyrim in general, see occasional art made for the story, and hear about more Miraak shenanigans in-game, I have a tumbr that is pretty much filled with these, art tutorials, and cute animals. Same name as here. Any progress I make getting published will also be announced there.**

**Wynni: The sort of unexpected visitors that knock in your door, use Fear on the town guard, and completely crash your mead hall. Like frat boys, but with magic. :P I'm glad you now want Miraak cuddles. I am a big fan of the Miraak cuddles, so I encourage this in others. XD Sadly Delphine's presence is needed for later, so no punishment yet. **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Thank you. I hope you continue to enjoy my chapters. :) Balgruuf was not completely out of the loop. He knew the basics of the idea, even if Melka was described more as a "scary old lady friend I once did a favor for" than "ancient hag that sold her soul for power and has a liking for eyeballs."**

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**Next Week: Blood's Honor. Except two teens are in the middle of it.**


	70. Chapter 70: Blood's Honor

Kodlak was a hair's breadth from the Change, Vilkas could feel it. He wasn't much better off, dodging the arrow a Silver Hand archer sent his way and snarling at the man. For them to attack their home—to attack Jorrvaskr, the hall of Ysgramor and his Companions! Did they hold no honor? He would rip their heads off for this!

The Bosmer fitted another arrow to his bow, trained on Vilkas. "Die, wolf," the man snarled, looking not unlike a wolf himself. Vilkas prepared himself to dodge.

The arrow that pierced the Bosmer's side surprised them both. The source utterly shocked them. Runa lowered her weapon, looking urgently around Jorrvaskr before taking aim again, visibly shaking off the effect of the carnage. Realizing the archer was staggering towards him, Vilkas dispatched him quickly before turning to his adopted daughter, intent on telling her to turn right back out that door, but her gaze met his so fiercely he paused. Balgruuf's eldest entered behind her and quickly shield-bashed a Breton coming up to them, setting himself and racing at the man with a cry of fury that stopped the man in his tracks. Despite himself, Vilkas was impressed—he'd never seen anyone manage the Nordic Battle Cry that young.

"Shor, no," Kodlak swore, noticing the children. Sharp-tipped nails cut through the gloves of his gauntlets, and his ears tapered to furry points.

"For Jorrvaskr!" Runa yelled, her voice only wavering a little as she grabbed a fallen Silver Hand's sword and raced in, duel-wielding the blade and her Skyforge dagger when she ran out of arrows.

The Orc she took on looked surprised, then irritated. "Leave us be, runt!" he growled, kicking her away. Runa staggered back, eyes narrowed, then darted in, using the tactics Ysmir had taught her that Vilkas and Farkas had always felt were just a bit dishonorable and whirling under his reach, dagger slicing along his inner knee, then coming back to slice the tendon at the back of his ankle, sending him toppling. Roaring in rage, the Orsimer battered her legs out from under her with his shield-arm before he rolled onto his knees, ham-fist raised as he rose over her, other hand covering her entire upper chest as he held her down. She looked terrified for a moment then spat in his face. Blinking spittle from his eyes, the Silver Hand member grimaced, face contorting in rage.

Vilkas took his hand from the wrist before angling the blade to liberate the Orc's head from his shoulders, kicking him to fall to the side and slide down the stairs to the firepit. Runa froze as the splay of red washed over her, painting her chest and face. Seeing her like that made Vilkas feel distinctly ill. Pausing from the battle for a moment, he reached down and yanked the girl to her feet. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Helping!" she snapped, the first time she had ever snapped at him.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" he snapped right back.

"Then you can yell at me in Sovngarde! Right now it's going to have to wait!" she replied, looking so fierce and gods, was he proud of her. And mad at her. And terrified for her. He'd have to sort it out later, for there were still several Silver Hand in the Hall.

A pained cry brought an answering look of horror to her face. "Frothar!" she shrieked, grabbing the sword back up and racing to the other end of the hall. The jarl's boy was against the wall, half his face covered with blood from a long slash that crossed his cheek and forehead. He didn't look scared however, only furious. Dropping his shield he rushed his opponent, battering him with his fist and pommel until the Breton staggered back. Tilma stood from the bench she was hiding behind and whacked him with her frying pan, sending him to his knees. The boy hit him once more with his pommel, and the man was out. Frothar gazed down at his unconscious form, chest heaving, and for a moment Vilkas thought the rage of battle would overtake the boy and he would run his opponent through, but then Runa was there, taking his face carefully in both hand to see the damage, and it all seemed to leach out of him. He all but fell onto the bench, looking as if he would be sick.

Three of the Silver Hand that had descended below came up the stairs, followed by Farkas and Torvar. "Spill my mead, will ya?" Torvar yelled, unleashing a flurry of blows that quickly brought one of the men down. Vilkas decided then and there that if they could get the man to drink just a bit less and show this level of skill a bit more, he might actually make a decent Companion.

Farkas battered through the shield of the woman, but caught her mace across the arm. He growled and advanced. The last man, apparently deciding he'd had enough, looked around desperately for a way out. His eyes fell on the children and Tilma, and before Vilkas could blink, he had yanked the old woman away from Frothar and Runa, his sword across her throat. Kodlak snarled at him, "Let her go, boy. There's nowhere you can go now."

"Tilma!" Farkas cried, distracted. Vilkas shouted as the woman took advantage, bringing her mace crashing into his twin's bare head. Torvar ceased trying to pull his sword from where it had caught in his opponent's rib cage and knocked her back with a shield blow to the stomach before she could finish the Companion off.

"Surrender, monster," the young Nord demanded, eyes darting from Kodlak to the others, "and this old bag might live to see tomorrow."

Kodlak glanced from the man to Runa and Frothar, over to Farkas's prone form where Torvar still held off the woman with only a shield, to the corner where Njada was, shield-arm dangling uselessly as she tried to defend herself against two opponents with only her sword. Vilkas yelped as an arch of lightning washed over him, bringing him to his knees. A second burst of magic leeched his strength until he could hardly move with a powerful ice spell. The Fear-casting Breton stood smirking in the door, apparently having succeeded in keeping the populace at bay and deciding it was time to join the fight. Numbers-wise, the Companions and Silver Hand were about even, but the latter clearly had the upper hand now.

"I'm waiting, monster!" the Nord bellowed.

The Harbinger gave a hollow laugh. "You think me a monster now, boy? Very well, I'll show you a monster."

"Master, no!" Vilkas cried, watching as Kodlak finally gave reign to the beast. Silver fur erupted from his body as his limbs lengthened, his skull stretching and his bones cracking as they changed shape. Frothar looked terrified and Runa horrified, and poor Tilma gave a little wail of fear. Behind him, he could hear Njada swearing profusely.

Apparently realizing he'd lost his leverage, the Silver Hand tossed Tilma away, the old woman crying out as she hit the floor and the Nord raised his sword in defense. The werewolf leapt at him, landing on his torso and breaking his legs as they were unable to hold the sudden weight. The Nord screamed in agony, unable to bring his sword around with Kodlak's claws digging through his shoulders. The last thing he saw was the advancing jaws of the wolf as they closed around his head.

"Damn you!" the Breton mage raged, enveloping the werewolf in a burst of ice storm. Drawing a silver sword, the mage fired several ice spears into the Harbinger as Vilkas struggled to get up. The mage only turned back to him and pinned him to the wall with another spear, expression one of annoyance. The werewolf staggered back, falling to hands and knees next to the fire pit. The mage stalked over, lifting his sword with an expression of fierce delight. "I'm going to kill the Harbinger of the Companions," he said gleefully to himself, and Vilkas couldn't help it; he closed his eyes.

The sound of silver hitting silver made them snap back open.

The mage looked incredulously down at the slim form between him and his victim. "Get out of the way, child."

"You're going to have to move me," she informed him firmly, eyes narrowed as she stood over Kodlak. "I will not let my family be slaughter by someone with so little honor they would seek to land the last blow while their opponent is on their knees rather than their feet, with a weapon in their hands."

Looking vastly amused, the spellsword replied, "Very well," bringing his sword around again as he hit the girl with a bolt of lightning.

Runa screamed but still managed to block the first blow, darting in with her dagger, only to miss as the electricity made her twitch. Ducking under his next swing, she aimed her next jab for the man's groin, and he backed away in alarm, blocking frantically. She dodged his flames spell, nicking his arm with her dagger as she knocked his arm away, setting some of the banners ablaze. Switching tactics, the mage cast a spell to their left that created a whirling sphere of black light, and Vilkas's struggles to pull the ice spear from the wall became all the more frantic.

The Dremora looked around, smiling slightly as his gaze fell on the girl. "I smell weakness," he purred, drawing his sword.

Eyes wide as septims, Runa darted to the other side of the mage, cutting as she went. He yowled, turning to face her, but she scrambled out of the way, always keeping the spellsword between her and his summon, expression terrified but determined.

Frustrated, the mage pointed over to where Frothar had dragged the unconscious servant from the battle area. "Kill them!" he ordered.

"No!" Runa shrieked, darting in and plunging the silver sword through the Breton's shoulder.

He staggered back, grimacing, then grinned slightly as the Dremora turned his gaze to the girl no longer out of reach, armed only with a dagger. He took a single step forward, and Vilkas saw red.

The Change had never come on him so fast, tearing the ice from his shoulder as he launched himself across the room and into the Dremora, sending them tumbling. He faintly heard a crash from downstairs, but it was nothing next to the sound the Dremora made as they impacted the wall. The werewolf set his claws into the neckpiece of the armor, prying it off bit by bit as even Daedric Ebony strained under his wrath. Were the man in control, he would have noted that Dremora Lords can indeed feel terror, but the wolf had been caged up too often lately, and reveled in the expression, in the man's anger, as he tore the carapace off his prey.

As soon as the head was clear, the wolf ripped it off, then howled in rage as the pray vanished completely without nourishing him. He was injured and hungry, and the man had had very little strength left to begin with. His howl of protest turned into a man's ragged cry as the wolf was forced back into its cage. Vilkas slumped to the floor, exhausted and sickened.

"Papa…" Runa breathed, completely horrified. Vilkas closed his eyes at her tone, not wanting to see her expression and wondering what all the wolf had managed to do.

"If you're going to fight, pay attention!" the spellsword taunted, raising his arm and hitting her with another shock of sparks, making her writhe and cry out. Frothar jumped up and tried to batter the man away, but the spellsword hit him with a burst of flame, and the boy dropped to the floor, rolling to put the flames out.

A blast of frost magic hit the boy, extinguishing the flames completely. Vilkas raised his eyes warily, wondering what else was coming, only to widen when he saw Serana at the top of the stairs, disheveled and breathing heavily. She looked around with feigned calm at the remaining Silver Hand, then directly at the spellsword.

"I hear you're looking for monsters," she stated.

The Silver Hand members hissed or cursed as she was enveloped in black mist that boiled and rolled around her form, bursting outward to reveal a form he had never seen. Serana was still recognizably Serana, but her skin was a strange grey green and her hairless skull sloped up to a bony crown, her arms and feet ended in clawed talons, and rising from her back were a pair of tattered bat-like wings.

"Come get me," she cooed, her voice strange and almost hypnotic. The woman that had injured Farkas took a step toward her, completely ignoring Torvar, who was staring at Serana anyway. The moment she was in reach, Serana reached out, cupping the woman's chin delicately in her talons until they were face to face. "Look away Runa, Frothar," she commanded gently, then sank her fangs into the woman's throat.

Vilkas couldn't tear his eyes off her. Repulsed, drawn in, and for once the wolf in him was strangely quiet, as if even it was surprised by the sight before him. The dead woman fell to the floor as if through water, a bizarre leisurely quality to the descent. She hit the ground with a thud, her helmet rolling off to stop with a clatter against a bench, and it was as if with that noise time resumed its normal pace.

The other Silver Hand broke out of their paralysis and charged.

To give her credit, Serana killed them as cleanly as she could with just her claws to arm her. Vampiric Drain and lightning arched through the air with blood and flame. Vampire she might be, Vilkas thought, but she was an amazing fighter in this form, darting and weaving around their enemies with an ease that seemed to enrage them, making use of her wings to leap into the rafters, dropping down behind them. Torvar grabbed a discarded mead from the table, took a big swallow, then waded in as well, wielding the bottle in lieu of his sword. Njada simply sank to the floor, staring and shaking.

A light touch brought him back to himself, and there was Runa, hovering over him worriedly and pressing a small potion pouch into his hand, draping the remains of a banner over his lower regions. "That Orc won't be needing it anymore," she explained when he looked up questioning from the half shredded pouch, then went to aid the Jarl's boy.

"What…is…that?" Kodlak gasped, still kneeling by the fire, human once more. One arm drooped, something inside torn from the cut that passed over it and down his chest, bleeding sluggishly.

"That's a Vampire Princess," Vilkas managed, watching as she eviscerated the last of the attackers around her. Perhaps it would have been better not to lock her in Skjor's old room last night.

"You bitch!" the spellsword bellowed, hitting her with what appeared to be a cloud of lightning. Serana shrieked, driven back against the back door and out into the courtyard, where the sun hit her from the east, boiling her blood and making her scream in pain, form fading back into that of an ordinary woman.

Striding down the stairs, the spellsword lifted his blade one last time, his gaze on the old man before him filled with fury. "Die, monster!" he spat, then gasped as an arrow jutted from his neck. He turned slowly, gazing up at the girl as she pulled another silver arrow from the dead Bosmer's quiver and took aim.

"The only monster here is you," she said, tears coursing down her face, and let the arrow fly.

The Breton fell on Kodlak, who dumped him over into the fire.

Runa dropped the bow, hands shaking, and closed her eyes, fingers curling in to make fists.

_"Do me a favor, will you? Don't tell the little ones what I did. I saved someone else this time around, someone who deserved to live way more than the man I…than the man I killed, but that won't always be the case, though I'll try to make it so as often as possible."_

Oh, Aventus, she thought, is this what you felt like? Is this what you're going to have to live with every day?

She opened her eyes to see Torvar helping Serana back into the shade of Jorrvaskr. Looking around, she saw that save for her and him, everyone else was injured fairly badly. Even Njada was cradling a broken arm as she stared in numbed fear. "Torvar," she said, and the man looked up with a little jump at the sound of her voice. "Will you go get clothing for Kodlak and Papa Vilkas? I need to go get Danica and perhaps Farengar, and I don't think we want them asking too many questions."

He glanced at the two naked men, then around at the wreck of the mead hall. "Good thinking," he replied, taking a moment to knock back another swallow of mead before gathering up their armor for good measure and heading downstairs.

Runa walked over to Njada and knelt. "They're werewolves," the woman said flatly.

"I know, but they're our werewolves, and she's our vampire, so we need to not spread that around, all right?" she said gently, as she would to an upset Darva.

Njada looked thoughtful. "Do you think I could be a werewolf?"

Blinking, then grinning a bit, the girl shook her head. "I couldn't say." The sound of Torvar coming up the stairs made her stand, looking anywhere but at Vilkas and Kodlak as they dressed.

"Is there any rope around here?" Frothar asked unexpectedly. "This one isn't dead, just out cold."

"I can fix that," Vilkas growled.

"Let me," Serana replied tiredly. "I need to heal this sun damage."

Runa decided she didn't want to be around for this next part and hurried across the square to the Temple, trying not to think about what she had done. She could be sick later. She could cry later. Right now, her family needed her to be strong, and she would be.

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**Well, I hope everyone has had a good week. Mine has been okay. Went on a baking binge and made five pies and a loaf of banana bread. The blueberry pie really looked like a jazbay crostata when it was done. There're pictures on my Tumblr, if your're interested. **

**I really hope you like this chapter. I'm sort of nervous about it, so please let me know what you think? I always had Runa figured for having complete and total Badass potential, and that flavored the entire chapter.**

**Also, my stats show that absolutely _no one_ has looked at this story in the last three days, and that hasn't happened since before chapter ten, so I was wondering if the story disappeared from the search bar or something, or perhaps everyone was just really busy? I normally don't go below twenty hits a day, and my ego suffered.**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: That would have to be really far down the road, when better behavior patterns are second nature.**

**Roger509: Thanks. :) I hope that feeling of rightness continued into this chapter.**

**Wynni: How could I write a fanfiction and not save one of the most awesome people in the game? :P I'm not quite following your logic on how frat boys are like vampires, unless you mean that they both tend to make a mess and can be killed by stabbing them through the heart with a stick. The kids are still in the "think before you speak or you might get eaten"mindset. The real test is if it stays. Frothar, at least, still has reasons for good behavior, besides the possibility of being taken again. **

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**Next time, whenever that may be: Back with Ysmir and Miraak as they finally reach the Conjuration trial. Maybe more cuddles. Maybe more draugr. No draugr cuddles, though.**

**Please, please, PLEASE review to tell me how I did on this very fight-centric chapter!**


	71. Chapter 71: A Moment of Respite

Ysmir ran her fingers through her hair to sweep it off her face, trying to ignore how badly her hands were shaking. She hadn't slept since being injured, and that too briefly before the undead had discovered them, forcing them to move as they literally tore the portcullis out of its mounting. That was perhaps a day and a half ago. She had no idea how long they had been down here. Certainly more than three, or even four days. After that she had completely lost track.

It wasn't as if she hadn't stayed awake far longer than she should possibly have been able to before this—it was sort of a hallmark of hers that Esbern had assured her was common in those of the dragon blood. But five days had previously been her limit, and she was dreadfully certain she was close to reaching it, if not past it, and there was no end in sight. She was running out of stamina potions, trying not to let Miraak see how badly off she was, but she needed food and sleep, and she wasn't even sure what order she wanted them in.

On the bright side, Miraak had been a bit nicer to her, only muttering about her under his breath when she irritated him rather than berating her out loud about her life choices. Since seeing her burned he seemed to be greatly troubled by something, as if he were arguing with himself. He didn't appear to be suffering for lack of food or sleep, and thankfully had been too caught up in his own musings to notice as she slowly started to let him take the lead. It wasn't like they both didn't want to get to the same place, and frankly, if they were going to blunder head-first into a trap he was better equipped to survive it. She wasn't even sure she could get through normal Nordic ruins in the state she was in. As much as she wanted to rescue Darva as quickly as possible, she was dreadfully afraid they were going to have to take a day or more to rest before they actually entered Labyrinthian.

They turned the last corner of the Restoration maze and the air shuddered with a familiar sound; the swinging of heavy blades. Ysmir sighed in relief; for the last several hours the maze had contained wandering undead they needed to repel, walls of fire or lightning they needed to ward their way through, and a bed of coals they had opted to freeze with Ice Form rather than ruin the soles of their shoes traversing (especially since Ysmir didn't have a second spare pair, and Miraak had no replacements whatsoever). It was also built on several levels, forcing them to jump from unsafe heights, heal themselves after the fall, and work their way up to another dangerous fall, sometimes while narrowly avoiding scorching pools of lava. This was why the Restoration Trail was taking far longer than any other—the multiple levels muddled up the lines in Miraak's book, and the pathway through was no longer so clear. Paths that should have lead toward the exit were sometimes above or below them, or filled with lava and not crossable. Now it appeared Shalidor wanted them to heal themselves constantly as they ran a gauntlet of deadly blades. Were she a simple mage, she might have cried, but being Dragonborn did have its perks.

"Faster if we both just go through, and would prevent the rest of the damned draugr from following," Miraak observed, sounding weary even if he didn't look it. She could come to resent him if he always seemed fresh as a daisy when she wanted nothing more than to fall on her face and sleep for a month.

_"Feim Zii Gron"_ she replied, heading through. It was harder to Shout than normal, and her bag felt awfully heavy. As they emerged from the trapped corridor, she wondered if Miraak would teach her that "feather" spell he mentioned…

She didn't remember stumbling into the wall, but suddenly she was pressed against it, clinging to it for support. Miraak reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, which felt distinctly odd and tingly while they were both ethereal. "I'm alright," she replied before he could ask. "I just need a moment," she finally admitted.

He didn't look convinced; in fact, he was scowling at her. "Stop being so damned stubborn, Ysmir. If you need to rest, take as long as you need."

She scowled right back, irritation giving her another burst of energy. "Mother henning doesn't suit you, Miraak," she snapped, taking a sip from her last bottle of water. "How much further?" she asked before he could issue the thundering response his expression heralded.

Miraak sighed, relenting. "We're almost to the end, I think."

"Thank Talos," she replied, pushing off the wall and downing another stamina potion while her back was to him. They were getting less and less effective, and she kept thinking she saw things at the corner of her vision.

Suddenly, Miraak grabbed her arm, halting her in her tracks. She looked up at him, irritated, but he only nodded ahead of them, and she realized that she had nearly walked right into another room like the Alteration test was in, the sigil for Conjuration mounted on a shield on the far wall. She shivered, putting her hand over his without really thinking about it. He gave her a slight smile before he slipped his mask back on, and they entered together.

The world whirled and twisted with dark light, reminding her sharply of reading a Black Book. The feeling abruptly vanished, leaving them in a strange place very like an obsidian disk floating in a black aurora. In the very center, a torq hung suspended in the air. Beyond that, a Dremora Valkynaz looked up, seeming startled to see them for a moment before he reached for his sword. Ysmir mentally braced herself, only to blink when Miraak cleared his throat and the Dremora looked at him and did something she had honestly never seen a Dremora do.

He blanched.

Miraak pointed at the Torq. "We're going to take that, and we're going to leave," he announced.

"Yes, Prince," the Dremora said, lowering his hand away from his weapon and seeming relieved.

Ysmir wasted no time stepping forward and grabbing the Torq. The moment her hands were on it, that peculiar shifting caught her back up in its grasp, spinning the world into blackness. When she opened her eyes she was on the ground, staring up at the sky in Labyrinthian. Somewhere beyond her rang out the all-too-familiar sound of battle. Turning her head slightly, she saw a Lurker going after yet another set of frost trolls, making her wonder idly just how many of the damned things were in the ancient city.

Something blocked out the sun, and she frowned up at Miraak, unable to see his expression against the bright sky. He had been doing something to her…it looked like a Healing spell, and she frowned, wondering when she had gotten hurt. Without asking permission, he scooped her up, settling her in his arms as she struggled weakly. "Be still," he scolded, gazing over at a Seeker she hadn't even noticed hovering some distance away. "As far as I can tell we were down there around six days; I not surprised you fainted." His voice became softer as he added, "I apologize. I no longer feel the need for food or sleep, so it is difficult for me to tell when much time has passed. It should have occurred to me that you needed more rest than the brief stops we took, especially after being injured."

"I don't like being carried," she reminded him stiffly.

"You can nag me about it later," he promised, striding forward.

"I don't nag!" she protested, then stiffened as they entered a portal. Apocrypha appeared around them, quite as horrible as she remembered. "If you want me to rest, this is the wrong place to take me."

"I'm aware," he stated, sounding very put-upon as they walked through a second portal.

Ysmir looked around, wiggling in an attempt to get him to put her on the ground as she recognized the swamp around Windstad. Ignoring her completely, Miraak walked right up to her door and into her house, quite as if he belonged there, but Ysmir was quickly running out of energy for umbrage, even when the door opened as if some unseen butler were bowing them in. He gave her a questioning look, and she sighed. "Up the stairs on the right," she supplied, allowing herself to relax a bit now that they were inside her home. He strode forward rather than replying as she realized that it was a good thing Vald was out.

It was the last thing she remembered for almost a day.

.

* * *

.

Miraak shook his head as he laid Ysmir on the bed and realized that she was already asleep, reflecting that she was probably the most stubborn creature he had ever had the fortune or misfortune to meet. He could subdue and conquer dragons, but he didn't think he had it in him to bend her will—not conventionally, anyway. No, it had taken being honest with her to change her mind about allowing him into her life. Perhaps there was a lesson in that.

Or not. He preferred to think not.

Pulling off her boots, he lifted her back up long enough to place her under the covers, a small, sardonic grin crossing his face as he realized how many of them there were. Why did the woman stay in Skyrim, he wondered as he mentally vanished her chainmail and teleported it into the wardrobe, when the cold bothered her so badly? More of that stubbornness, he supposed, then frowned, realizing that—as hero of Skyrim—it might be a security matter as well. If she ever went missing, it wouldn't be long before it was noticed, and the cry went out.

They had used Fear on her. She had escaped the Thalmor when she was a child, and already had had the spell used on her so often she had gained a resistance to it. They truly had gone to great lengths to train their specially-bred agents. He wondered how many other so-called Young Ones were out there, and what they were like. They wouldn't be Dragonborn, of course, but perhaps they could be useful, especially if he could ensure that their beloved "families" never found them. He couldn't give something for nothing, after all. It could be worth looking into.

Gently, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, watching her face for a few moments as she slept. It was sort of incredible that a dragon's soul resided in this small, delicate form. Of course, she didn't seem so delicate when she was trying to kill something (especially him), but that was part of her charm, he supposed. She was like a fire wraith—ethereal and daintily built but scary as hell when angered. It was quite endearing, really, and precisely why he wouldn't use Bend Will on her—it would ruin the very part of her he admired.

He had no such reservations about Charm spells, however, but he was going to have to be careful about using them, and leave them as a last resort. She was fully prepared to use whatever leverage she needed to stop his plans for world dominion, and he was equally determined that she do no such thing. In fact, he was certain he could bring her around to his point of view, in time: He simply needed to find ways of showing her what else was brewing without her actually get involved in it, as she was so wont to do.

When she had entered Apocrypha all those years ago, simply appearing behind him as he talked with several unhappy Seekers, he hadn't known what to think. He had felt a threat and moved to neutralize it, but been strangely loath to destroy her once he realized what she was. His first impression had been her hair—quite literally the first bright color he had ever seen in Apocrypha. She had seemed so weak, paralyzed there before him from a spell that would have killed most humans, and he had been astonished to realize she was Alduin _dovahkriid_. Like the dragons trapped with him, he had felt the moment Alduin died, and known there was another Dovahkiin. He had expected another like him, or like Talos—a Nord warrior. He certainly hadn't been expecting a mixed-race mage who reminded him weirdly of the brief meeting he'd once had with Alessia on Mora's behalf. So, ignoring the conflicting instincts vying for supremacy, he'd simply sought to scare her off, fooled by that seeming weakness into thinking that would be that.

Weakness and color. Like a butterfly had wandered into his realm. Really, he should have known better—hadn't the other Priests once underestimated him in the same manner? Of course, that was before she had sabotaged all his carefully-laid plans. In hindsight he was rather glad he hadn't known just what she was capable of in that moment, or he surely would have killed her. As it was, he had been distracted for days as he contemplated the implications of her appearance, then of all times. Mora had brought her, of that there had been no doubt, and he had either done it because he had tired of his current Dragonborn, or because he wanted someone to pull Miraak back into line for him. Either would probably have suited the Daedra, honestly; the only reason he hadn't taken care of Miraak himself was surely boredom. Manipulating others into teaching his wayward Champion a lesson was vastly more entertaining than doing so himself, and who was more entertaining than someone with the exact same abilities he had?

Ironic that bringing her in had ultimately been his downfall. Mora never would have touched Miraak physically had it not been for his trying to impress upon Ysmir how helpless she was in the face of his power.

Heading out of the room, he glanced down at the Seeker still hovering around the bottom floor. This place had enough books for it to feel a bit at home, and he could actually sense it's contentment with the place. Tucking that observation in the back of his mind for a later date, he opened another portal to Apocrypha, from there trying once more to reach the College of Winterhold. Again he was met with resistance, as if he were fighting to open a door against the headwinds of a blizzard. He gritted his teeth and turned away in disgust, trying for one of the mountains overlooking the town. It was more difficult than it should have been, but he was able to step out into the fierce mountain wind, snow bending around him in its path to the ground.

Winterhold itself looked no different, but the College was almost completely obscured. Just the posts at the end of the stairs leading to the causeway remained, looking absurdly tiny just before the swirling sphere of energy. Miraak was almost impressed with what that idiot Ancano had managed, though he thought it might have been mostly incidental to what the man was actually _trying_ to do. If he had known the information he'd been doling out to the Altmer was going to result in so much frustration for him, he would have just ripped the knowledge he wanted from the man's mind rather than trying to cultivate him, but he had been trying to do things less like a Dragon Priest. All in all, it had backfired pretty spectacularly.

Well, it wasn't his only avenue of information, after all.

Dorte glanced up as he entered the room, relieved his mask was firmly covering his face. He dismissed her for the moment, focusing on the pair of Dunmer by the bed. Iriel stood stiffly as he approached, her dark hair pulled austerely away from her face and wearing a simple blue robe. Miraak nodded a greeting to her and she crossed her arms, nodding back with icy formality, a single black curl that had escaped her bun bobbing by her face. She had not appreciated being pulled away from the Temple of the Eight with no warning, and had been very close to attacking him until he explained that it was Turinmar that needed her aid, not him. Even now, she was having trouble believing that he was not only free, but had usurped his captor. She expected some trick, and was determined not to fall for it.

Turinmar brightened when he saw his master. "Did you find her?" he asked immediately.

Miraak turned his mask toward Dorte, who flinched, "Shoo," he told her.

"Don't have to tell me twice," she muttered, heading into the Steward's office and shutting the door. Miraak wondered once again if he should just kill her, but she was still useful, and Turinmar would be upset. The fact that he didn't want Turinmar upset was almost embarrassing, but Miraak supposed he could live with it for the remaining two or three hundred years the elf had left, provided Dorte didn't do anything else to raise his ire.

"What is he talking about?" Iriel demanded, arms still crossed. That was a distinct improvement from when she had left, almost eighty years ago. Back then she wouldn't even talk to him.

Miraak paused for a moment of deliberation. She probably wouldn't willingly leave her uncle alone with him in this state, and he didn't know how much time he had to coax her before Ysmir woke up. "My daughter has been kidnapped," he finally stated, as matter-of-factly as he could.

The look on her face would have been amusing under other circumstances—she paled, then flushed, her eyes going wide and her mouth dropping open, then closing, then opening again before she finally managed to speak. "Is that even possible?" she asked, glancing between him and Turinmar, who grinned in a way that suggested he was heavily dosed with something that made him think the world was positively_ wonderful._ Miraak suspected Sleeping Tree Sap, and wondered where the girl had gotten it. "I mean…how long were you in Oblivion? Shouldn't you be too…well, _old_ for that?"

Miraak gave her a pained look from behind his mask, then decided to hell with it and took the damned thing off. Her eyes widened as she saw him for the first time, the reptilian eye encircled by scales reaching down to his jaw. Turinmar mistook the action and beamed at his niece, taking this as evidence that Miraak trusted her and not that the Atmoran was annoyed and wanted to be elsewhere. "It was Hermaeus Mora's whim for me not to die, so I did not, but I would hardly be useful as a living corpse, and so I never aged either," he stated starkly, making her flush and look away. She was so used to thinking of him as the villain, it pained her at times to be reminded that he was a victim, too. He didn't like the word, "victim," but didn't counter her thoughts since it was far more useful to have her sympathetic than to sooth his pride over a mere word.

Still, it kind of rankled.

"She's lovely," Turinmar stated, reaching up to take Iriel's hand. He missed twice before she caught his discolored fingers in her own. "She's like you were, you know, when you were tiny. So bright. A little chatterbox, you know. Wanted me to teach her how to heal people, isn't that sweet?"

That was news to Miraak. "So you remember what happened?" he asked, taking the seat next to the bed and leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

The Dunmer frowned, "Yes. I went up the stupid tall mountain—Nords really are stubborn to want their house all the way up there, you know—to learn about the other Dragonborn but they turned me away. Then this little girl ran up as I was leaving and she looked just like you except she has curls that would look ridiculous on you and asked me to teach her how to heal; something about someone getting hit in the face. The little Redguard boy came out and said he was her brother and started to pull her back when the mercenaries appeared and shot me. Darva Shouted them away and apologized to Talos but one man got the boy and she tried to save him and got scooped up. Then he kicked me and I went back to the monastery. Someone called Klimmek saved me and the Greybeard said they would tell Ysmir that the Blades took Darva but I had to tell you and now you know." He stopped, taking a deep breath and looking as if recounting the story had taken all his energy.

Iriel gave him an irate glance. "My uncle needs his rest now," she told him pointedly.

"By all means," he said, waving for her to proceed. She gently placed a hand on Turinmar's forehead, and they both watched as the Steward's eyes fluttered closed. When she looked up it was to find him giving her a measuring look. Iriel returned his regard uncomfortably, and the thoughts crossing her eyes were plain. He was not the same person he was when she left. He was both harder and softer, but she had never expected to see so much care for another person from him. People were tools to him, she thought, and while one takes care of a tool when one has need of it, it is just as easily discarded when it's of no further use.

Turinmar had disobeyed him. He had meddled where he had no right, and yet Miraak not only had made no move to kill him, he was actively trying to help him get better. The scary figure from her childhood was less ruthless than she had assumed.

Behind all this was the rather dismayed thought that she hadn't expected him to be attractive, especially after her uncle had told her of the dragon scales. She was actually as unsettled by that realization as anything else, though it did ameliorate his ruffled pride somewhat.

"How is he?" Miraak finally asked, reading all this as easily as he would words on a page.

"He'll lose the leg," she finally stated, "a toe, and two of his fingers. He may never get full feeling back in some of the others. His ears will be shorter once I remove the dead flesh, but other than that and some joint pain, he'll be all right."

He nodded, "Good," he stated, rising.

"What are you planning to do with her?" she asked before he could leave.

Miraak turned, frowning. "With whom?"

"Your daughter. She'd have the same powers as you, right? A potential rival or a potential tool; which is she?" He gritted his teeth, not bothering to hide that she'd angered him, and she recoiled, then firmed. "Well? No child deserves to be used as a commodity, Miraak. I don't care how powerful you've apparently become, if you try to use that child for your own ends, I swear as a Priestess of the Eight that I will stop you."

His anger vanished in an instant, replaced with something that felt strangely like admiration and…pride? Iriel bristled at his mocking laughter, assuming it was at her declaration. Miraak forestalled her anger by turning to smile sardonically at her, shaking his head at how soft he'd gotten since meeting Darva. There was a time he would have stuck her in a cage for a week for speaking to him so, though eventually he probably would have promoted her, if she survived. After careful cultivation, of course: A fighting spirit was no good to him if it was focused on taking him down. It was one of the reasons he had eventually broken things off with Gormlaith, all those centuries ago. "You've grown up wonderfully, Iriel. Not many people would challenge someone as powerful as me on principle, and for a child they haven't met. Rest assured, all I want for Darva is her happiness." She stumbled away as his eyes turned black, the room growing darker as he thought of what little he could feel from her, the sorrow and anger that echoed down the path where there was once only joy and wonder. "What I will do to those who took her is another story entirely."

The priestess shivered at the suppressed violence in his tone, hand closing protectively around Turinmar's. One day, perhaps Miraak would tell her how seeing her grow had helped him with Darva, having memories of what a small girl might like and dislike, and how the world could be wondrous even when it was filled with sorrow. He never wanted to see Darva broken as Iriel had been. He would give up his immortality to make it so, a realization that did nothing to allay his anxieties.

When he emerged at Windstad the house was quiet. The Seeker was engrossed in a series of journals. Miraak took a peek at one of them, surprised to find they belonged to Ysmir herself. She apparently had quite the drawing talent, though he could wish she hadn't filled so many pages with this "Ralof" character, who apparently was unacquainted with the concept of shirts. Putting the journal down, he climbed the stairs to find her still deeply asleep. Despite the number of blankets piled over her she was shivering slightly. He shook his head, removing his boots, gauntlets and spaulders, then the outer layer of his robes with scarcely a thought before sliding in with her, noting that it felt distinctly odd to be in a bed again. He couldn't actually remember the last time he'd laid in one. Ysmir instantly snuggled up to him, muttering appreciatively as she stopped shivering, and he suppressed a chuckle. Would she ever know how much she had turned his life upside down? He wasn't sure he wanted her to know. He certainly didn't want anyone else to.

Deciding to rest for a while, even if he didn't need to sleep, Miraak tucked her head under his chin, pulling her closer and closing his eyes. Taking a deep, calming breath, he cast his mind out again for their daughter, hoping to find some sign, some whisper in the dark that would tell him where she was.

In his arms, Ysmir slept on.

**.**

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**Hi, people! I hope you are all doing well. I've started tax classes two weeks ago and have been doing little else but taxes and tax homework since. I honestly had no idea a class that ran for four hours three days a week would take up literally almost three times that much time in homework. -_- (What have I gotten myself into?) I've had a headache/migraine on and off for the past week as well, so life has definitely been better. My boyfriend has no idea why I'm letting myself get so stressed over this, but he learned accounting quite literally at his mother's knee, and so has a much better grasp at this stuff than I have.**

**Still unemployed, still working on it. In my limited free time I've been getting designs ready to open a Society 6 account, so if you've liked my art so far, or just really want a cellphone cover with a Chibi Miraak on it, please visit when I get that up. I will most certainly direct you all there. I might also be getting a . If you didn't know that I am an artist as well as a writer, I simply encourage you to go check out my Deviantart gallery. I have the same name as here. I also have a Tumblr under this name, filled with art, in-game shenanigans, and other Miraak fans. Oh, and cute animals. **

**Speaking of, Troublemaker now likes to jump on Matt and my shoulders, but only to use us as a springboard to get to the top of the cage, where the treats and dustbath are located. Gamera still won't lay her eggs in the sandbox. I should be at a friend's house with her right now, but my head feels like Aela's probably did when that frost troll was squeezing it. Only I have no hunky guy to kiss it better, since Matt is at work. _*sighs dramatically*_**

**Oh, it turns out the lack of views last time was some sort of mechanical error. I know because I had no views while getting reviews. It got fixed when they did the last update thingy.**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! I got NINE WHOLE REVIEWS for this chapter! New record!**

**Sigrun0961: Thank you! Welcome to the deranged little family. :) I hope you don't mind too much that it's not a weekly update anymore.**

**Anon: Since I only keep open stories that I absolutely adore on my phone, this meant a lot. I hope you like PC Skyrim! (Isn't Miraak such a lovable jerk in the mod? His follower behavior is actually why his relaxed personality is so playful in the story-around Ysmir anyway. I finally got to marry him in-game, and immediately after he burst out with "It's too late for regrets!" XD)**

**midnightandcounting: You're very welcome. I hope you enjoyed this dose of Miraak and Ysmir.**

**Wynni: Your optimism is valid, provided a certain floating dresser doesn't open her mouth. Considering all Runa has been through this story (and in-game) I could hardly take away her grandpa figure right before her eyes! And no, no "where the hell were you" speech, just perhaps a "what the hell is _he_ doing here?" speech.**

**JennaJuniper: They had to let Torvar in for something! Farkas is fine, don't worry. A bit of a headache, but Danica and Farengar will set them all to rights. :) Thank you for putting specific likes in there; I enjoy knowing what I'm doing right. :D**

**afeleon276: Ah, the various Skyrim Grandpas. :) Too bad they don't all get along. Runa's character concept comes from the fact that she is reportedly the only girl that, when gifted with a wooden sword or dagger, will go into the basement and practice with it against the dummy the same way the boys will. I figured she knows how to stand up for herself after being the only girl in that horrible orphanage!**

**SollunaTerra: FLUFF FOR THE FLUFF THRONE!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: If the draugr want cuddles they should appeal to the Cuddle Gods just like everyone else.**

**Roger509:... I found a Cuddle God! He has spoken! Go cuddle some draugr! **

**XD**

**.**

**Next time (probably): Ysmir finds out just who kidnapped her babies, and takes the first awkward steps toward bringing her asinine, egotistical Daedra into her family. It really should have been part of this chapter, but thanks to Miraak talking so much, it just would have been too darn long.**


	72. Chapter 72: Tinvaak

"Blades?" she repeated incredulously, staring at Miraak over the dining table—and wasn't _that_ an odd sensation? Despite the dragon scales growing across the left side of his face he looked surprisingly normal in the charcoal undertunic and breaches he usually wore under his robes. He was eating as well, though it was almost as if he needed to think a bit before he remembered how to chew, which actually bothered her more than if he had simply refused to eat.

Although, considering that the chef was a Seeker, she probably wouldn't have eaten at all if he hadn't taken something. She wondered where it had gotten the apron.

"She's not in their temple, though," he informed her before she could suggest they go there. "I felt her briefly earlier before her presence vanished again—I think whatever is suppressing her _dovahsil_ needs periodic renewal. She's somewhere on the other end of Skyrim, between _Monahven_ and the Velothi range. I don't think she's further south than Riften, but I can't tell just yet if she's north or south of Windhelm; completely aside from that blinding force out of Winterhold, the presence of so many minds makes things difficult to pinpoint."

"Bloody Civil War," she muttered, poking at her food. The Seeker waved its tentacles anxiously, and she hurriedly took another bite before she realized she was worried about hurting a_ Seeker's_ feelings. Divines, but her life had changed.

"She's not afraid for herself anymore," Miraak added, and her head jerked up to gaze at him questioningly. His eyes were veiled, staring inward, but while his expression was troubled he didn't seem overly concerned about any immediate danger to their daughter. "She's unhappy, and worried for the…her brother and about something else, but she seems resigned to be there a while. And bored."

"She's _bored?"_ Ysmir's eyebrows rose in disbelief, then lowered when she snorted, "If it's Delphine that has her, I would imagine she'd be bombarded with stories about how horrible dragons actually are—I wouldn't think the woman would let her alone for a breath, not leave her to be bored." Miraak shrugged, remembered he was supposed to be eating, and put another bite of bread into his mouth, the muscles in his jaw working as he slowly chewed.

Ysmir took a shaky breath, looking down to hide her flush. Awakening in Miraak's arms had been confusing in many ways—not the least of which was initially not knowing where she was. Pleasure and apprehension had hit simultaneously with memory. What had she done? Was allowing him into their lives—all of their lives, for she would take all or nothing from him—really the right choice, no matter what reasons she had to try to justify it to herself?

The sensation in her soul upon waking that there was a rival dragon curled around her didn't help. She'd never known exactly how she could sense when a lair was near when traveling, but awakening with that feeling pounding through her veins was a completely new sensation. The light, filled feeling in her chest—strangely reminiscent of the warmth of the furs cocooning them—was the most surprising thing. Ysmir didn't quite know what to make of it until she started analyzing it, tensing slightly when she realized when she had last felt something similar.

As if sensing her doubts, Miraak had shifted, nibbling her ear as his hands moved from their comforting hold to lightly tease over her skin. Her protests that they were in a hurry were cut off when his lips captured hers, softly at first but then more fiercely, starting a dominance contest that some part of her had responded to in an almost impish manner. His strangely titillating decision to speak mostly in Dovahzul hadn't helped her resistance any as he'd moved over her, finding the waistband of her trews and sliding his fingers inside, chuckling darkly against her neck at the breathy gasp the action elicited. The resulting morning had left her breathless and pleasantly sore, and not quite knowing if she wanted to beat the pleased look off his face or drag him back upstairs.

She was definitely making him fix the bed before they left. There was no polite way to explain _that_ to anyone.

This morning her world was awash in confusion, it seemed. Emotions battered and conflicted with each other long before she was even out of bed—worry and contentment, guilt and happiness. And then, of course, she had come down the stairs to find a Seeker wearing an apron bustling around the cooking hearth. She had turned right back around and lay on the ruin of the bed while Miraak watched with puzzlement, convincing herself that next time she crawled back out of it, she would be fully awake and not dreaming.

"I'm actually rather relieved," Ysmir admitted, staring down at her plate and realizing she had eaten the entire venison chop while she thought. Mouth-watering spices still lingered on her tongue, and she wished there was more. A Seeker was a better cook than her; terrific. "Delphine's intense, but she would never hurt Darva. I mean, Dragonborn are more ideas than people to her, but physically, Darva is fine. And given what Delphine is fanatical about, Darva's going to be difficult for her to brainwash." Looking up, she shrugged a little, "Still, she's never been exactly spectacular with children. I don't doubt she's already bombarded her with her 'responsibility' to rid the world of dragons." A thought occurred to her and she anxiously added, "Her presence hasn't been moving, has it?"

Miraak shook his head, "No," he responded definitively.

"Good," Ysmir nodded, gazing down into her tankard. "At least she hasn't been dragging her around to consume the souls of the dragons they kill. After seeing what it did to me before I managed to overcome it, I can't imagine even Delphine being that cruel."

"Was it she who took the Elder Scrolls from your house?" he asked calmly, watching her keenly as he tore the remainder of his bread into little pieces. From the carefully leashed anger in his eyes she wondered if he were imagining it was Delphine he was shredding into bits.

Ysmir gaped, "How did you know about that?" When he only lifted an eyebrow, she shrugged. "It wouldn't surprise me. That woman is convinced that either Paarthurnax is going to replace Alduin, or I am. Apparently half the job of being a Blade is being paranoid that a Dragonborn will spontaneously become a tyrannical overlord."

His low chuckle reminded her just who she was talking to even as it did uncomfortable things to the base of her stomach. Flushing, she stood, nearly colliding with the Seeker as it hurried over, tentacled limbs gesticulating wildly and making the ruffles on its apron look as if they were undulating. Miraak's brow furrowed, and Ysmir looked from one to the other, wondering how they were speaking. "Expecting someone?" he asked her.

She blinked. "No."

The sound of a key in the lock brought her head whipping around. The door opened, and Bandit bounded joyfully in, skidding to a halt in the middle of the entryway and tilting his head in puzzlement. The dog's tail wagged slowly, confused as to whether he should bark at the strangers or greet Ysmir with his usual slobbery abandon. He settled for looking at her and giving an uncertain whine. Valdimar looked up from closing the door and stopped dead, his face a blank mask of surprise.

"Uh…hello, Vald," she said awkwardly, giving a little wave and glancing nervously at Miraak, doing a double take when she realized he was completely clothed again, Dragon Priest spaulders, mask and all. The Daedra crossed his arms and tilted his head, inviting a challenge. She repressed a groan.

Valdimar looked from her to Miraak, then to the Seeker in his apron. "My Thane," he said, giving her a rather calm nod, considering. "I just needed to pick up a few of my things for an extended stay at Lakeview."

"Right," she said, feeling quite like she had been caught doing something naughty. Well, she was going to have to introduce Miraak to her family sometime; might as well start with Valdimar. "Vald, this is Miraak. Miraak, this is Vald, my Hjaalmarch Housecarl and Steward of Windstad Manor."

Valdimar studied Miraak for a second, then looked back to her. "My Thane, if I might have a word with you?"

"Certainly," she replied, wincing inside as she followed him back out the front door. She braced herself when the man took a deep breath and turned back to her.

"I cannot believe you! You brought two men here last time, and now I find you with another one! Can't you leave any for the rest of us?" he fumed, each word punctuated by a puff of mist in the cold air. He glared at her with his hands on his hips, mustache aquiver.

Ysmir blinked, "Uh…"

"And isn't he the one that came around last time announcing he had _murdered_ that jarl that tried to blackmail you into marrying him? I know some women find that kind of thing romantic, but that still makes him a jealous, murdering criminal! I thought you had more sense than that! Has he at least paid the fine?" Valdimar demanded, starting to pace.

"Well…"

"What if he decides your other lovers are next?" Valdimar cried, turning to look at her in anguish. "People like that are not healthy to be around for vivacious, amorous young women!"

Valdimar suddenly found himself interrupted by Ysmir giving him a tight hug, laughing. "Oh, Vald! He already knows that if anything happens to the twins, he's out. I made sure I told him so." She had, too, and he'd grumped about it all the way to the Restoration trial, where he'd taken it out on the first draugr or six that had crossed their path. "Besides, killing someone who threatens a loved one is hardly uncommon in Skyrim. I don't approve, but he's promised to behave himself." In Skyrim where she could see, anyway. The Last Dragonborn was under no illusions that the First was about to change his ways overnight—or at all, really. Still, at least this way she could keep an eye on him.

"Ysmir?" Miraak interjected from behind them, making them both jump, "We should be going."

"Right. Sorry, Vald. I wasn't expecting to come here, but we had to spend almost a week in a maze to get a key to a ruin so we can get into the College of Winterhold and speak to a seer about where to go next."

"So a typical trip with you. Have fun," he replied absently, still looking Miraak over curiously. "Are you taking that thing with you?" he asked, pointing to the Seeker, which wiggled a little at being singled out.

Miraak glanced at it, "He's quite happy here," he said, a bit of a smirk in his voice that Ysmir wasn't sure what to make of. "He's not used to so many books that still have words in them."

"Ah. What's his name?" Valdimar asked, looking sort of fascinated. The Seeker twisted a bit, tentacles curling.

That actually gave Miraak pause, "He doesn't remember," he replied after a moment, the amusement gone. Ysmir felt her heart constrict as she wondered how he had resisted that very thing for centuries.

"I'll call him Wiggins," Valdimar decided, watching the Seeker wiggle around, "And provided he cleans up after himself, he's no worse than some of the other people my lovely Thane has brought in."

"Vald!" Ysmir scolded and he grinned.

"Take care of yourself, my Thane. I'll have your house back to rights in no time!" he assured her, clapping her on the shoulder. "It was nice to meet you, Miraak," he added, nodding to the Daedric Prince as he passed them. "You really should pay the fine for murdering Siddgeir—no one will miss that brat, but Ysmir has enough questionable company as it is."

"Vald!" she protested, completely taken aback by how easily he was taking all this.

"Oh," the housecarl paused as he remembered something, turning to pull a long, wrapped parcel out of his bag. "If you're going into another tomb, you might want this," he said, handing it to her. "I grabbed it to fill in some of the space on your walls at Lakeview."

Miraak was laughing at her as she watched the balding man disappear into her house, holding the parcel as her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. "Close your mouth, Ysmir. You look awfully pretty like that, but somewhat dim."

Her mouth snapped shut as she glared at him, knowing he was amused and irritated by it. All her worrying and Valdimar had shrugged meeting Miraak off like he was just another crazy person his heedless Thane brought home. She wasn't _that_ bad…was she?

Ignoring him, she pulled the canvas off the parcel, which turned out to be Dawnbreaker. "Well," she said, noting with some satisfaction that the chuckling had stopped, "at least now I have something to fight off undead with."

"Indeed," he said, obviously sobered. "Ysmir…that is a Daedric Artifact."

"That it is," she agreed, returning his look blandly.

He crossed his arms, "Should I be worried?"

"That I repeated your mistake?" she inquired, smirking a little when he tensed, "I haven't pledged my soul to anyone, if that's what you're worried about. In fact, I specifically refused to. I just promised to kill some undead."

"I never technically pledged my soul, either," Miraak said, much to her surprise. "Still, Meridia is not known for dishonest dealings, as Mora was," he seemed relieved, and she was surprised at how warm it made her feel that he was worried about her. It was also somewhat irksome, that he apparently thought she would do something that stupid. She'd seen Sovngarde once and had every intention of returning. After all, there were people there she wanted to see again. "Shall we go?"

"Yes," she replied, tying Dawnbreaker onto her belt. He had said Labyrinthian had been their capitol. Who knew what they were likely to face?

.

* * *

.

Darva leaned back, kicking her chained feet through the darkness below her ledge as she listened to the hushed whispers behind her with interest. Rainer was gone. The little Redguard boy was gone. And something was picking off sentries.

She wasn't sure about that last part, but she was glad Rainer had listened and taken Alesan away. Unsure how long the Shout would last, she had told the man to take him to the nearest town, give him some money and then forget what he had done. That was how it worked in all the old stories. Hopefully, it would work for Alesan as well.

It was good to know they had left before the sentries started vanishing, though. She might be bad now, but she would never forgive herself if something even worse than a slaughterfish bite happened to Alesan because of her. He'd been through enough because she was Dragonborn. _She'd_ been through enough because she was Dragonborn. The girl dearly wished she could have asked Rainer to take her away as well, but they were always watching her. Fjotli came around every once in a while to see if she needed anything, that pretty Jori would come and read with her or to give her a doll made from wrapped-up plant leaves (it wasn't as nice as her doll, but she appreciated having something to cuddle), Mister Esbern would tell her tales of past heroes and interesting things about dragons, and Meanie Delphine would tell her other stories about bad dragons doing bad things.

Swinging her feet side to side, she listened to the jingle of the chains, the place where the dragons had raged in her mind quiet now since Meanie Delphine had made her look at the Words. Meanie Delphine and Mister Esbern had had a long argument over her absorbing dragon souls when she was so little. That made sense to Darva, because dragons were huge and she had no idea where she fit the ones she had already eaten. Despite Mister Esbern's protests, they had brought her a few more carts full of bones. She wasn't entirely sure how many, since it had felt as if the inside of her head was on fire the entire time. By the time the last cart rolled away, she hadn't even argued when the horrible woman shoved the paper under her nose. Mister Esbern had sat with her a long time after that, telling her tales of Nord heroes and Talos and seeming to be worried about her. Darva was beginning to suspect that the pair were arguing quite often nowadays, but somehow she couldn't find it in herself to feel guilty over breaking up their friendship. More evidence that she was turning rotten, she thought.

Flopping backwards, Darva stared up at the hole in the cavern roof above them, where sunlight leaked in but never reached her. That was alright. Bad things belonged in the dark.

She hoped Alesan was all right.

.

* * *

.

"Do you think they're all right?" Alesan asked, peering over the cliff at the camp.

"I'm sure they're fine," Argis said, ruffling the boy's tight curls reassuringly. When Aela had raced back, breathlessly telling him that a man was walking a child away from the camp, Argis had almost thought it was a trap, since it was far too good to be true. But they had gone, of course; Aela hitting the man with an arrow dipped in paralysis poison so he couldn't raise a fuss or harm the child, who—much to their surprise—turned out to be Alesan. The Blade still hadn't come out of whatever stupor he had been in, but since it was the middle of the second day, Argis was beginning to doubt that it was from the hit on the head he had given him. It was just as well; he wasn't sure what they would do with the man when he did come out of it.

They still hadn't decided what course of action they should take. They had tracked Sofie this far, finding a rather suspicious Khajiit who admitted to showing her to the Eldergleam Sanctuary, only to find it had been occupied by a familiar fighting force. The Khajiit had "volunteered" to ask for them to release the girl, only to be taken prisoner as well. Well, they had tried to, anyway. The cat could run, Argis would give him that. They had been seriously considering returning to Jorrvaskr for reinforcements when they had spotted Alesan being led from the cave itself. And now they knew Darva was in there as well.

Given that the fighters were Blades, Argis supposed the secret was out.

"I'm beginning to think we should just clear those bandits out of Mistwatch and move in," Aela complained as she joined them, plunking down next to him with tired grace. "Those morons are hunting the caldera bare, and I'm sick of moldy cheese."

Argis gave her a rueful grin. "That would be a big task for just two people, especially since we can't leave Alesan behind."

"Naw," Alesan scoffed. "Auntie Aela can just turn into a werew—" he glanced at them and paled "—a sneak machine and pick them off one by one."

Aela had gone very still beside him, and he regarded her steadily for a moment. "Aunt Aela has been using her skills on the idiots that took you, and might need a break from being a 'sneak machine,'" he said.

"Argis…" she finally said, sounding oddly hesitant. She hadn't wanted him to know just yet, not until she knew whether he would see her gift for what it was, and not think her cursed as Kodlak and the twins did. Or worse.

"I already knew," he told her quietly, giving her a small smile.

She shook her head, not daring to hope that he wasn't just talking about her taking out the sentries like frightened deer. "I'm—"

"You're beautiful," he said, cutting her off and slipping his hand over hers. "You're amazing. Everything about you is amazing."

For a long moment she simply gazed at him, unsure she was hearing him correctly, then grinned fiercely at him, The Huntress once more—wild and proud and confident. "Does this mean you'd join me in this gift?" Aela asked boldly.

He matched her grin gamely, wishing they dared go off for a while. "Let us just say for now that I am not completely opposed to the idea," he replied, thumb stroking the back of her hand.

Alesan coughed disapprovingly. "If you two are going to start kissing again, could you do it somewhere else?"

**.**

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**Oh my gosh my life has been hectic. I have absolutely no choice but to start paying $200 more a month towards my loans, so I have to find a job yesterday, or my parents have to pay it, and they can't. I had two interviews this week, on top of class and homework, I've been trying to play WoW with my boyfriend, and my sister has had me hanging on the phone since Friday waiting for her to go into labor. Next time you hear from me, I will hopefully be an aunt. Other than that I have two art commissions to work on, and for some reason my muse up and wrote another prequel story that will eventually be posted, rather than another chapter. -_-;**

**So, this one was written in bits around everything else I have been doing. Hopefully it wasn't too choppy.**

**I have also been fulfilling asks about this story on Tumblr, so if you want to chat, head on over and send me a message! You can ask about any character, too, not just my main ones. (Again, same name.)**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! You guys are amazing and I never would have gotten this far without your encouragement!**

**afeleon276: When I first read your review for some reason I immediately envisioned Romulous showing up with a cake and the guy from the U.S. Army recruitment posters (Let's hope Sheo's tailor doesn't get any ideas). Still enjoying all the kids? I find that the more I have, the less likely they are to glitch on me, for some weird reason. When I have two, the boy always glitches and won't leave me alone, always dragging me into dialogue mode. With a few more I guess he finds someone else to talk to! **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Actually, Roger509 is the Cuddle God Candidate. Nurgle is no longer invited to parties since that time he and Peryite had a puss-off. Normal people usually start to hallucinate and go into micro sleeps long before then, but I figured being Dragonborn probably came with some stamina perks. XD By now, Miraak probably has his own art gallery.**

**Wynni: I hope Valdimar's reaction was all that you hoped. I misremembered on the Runa thing; she's the only one that duel-wields and switches out weapons for better ones. Sending people off to Sovngarde with a splinter! How humiliating!**

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**Next time, maybe: Miraak and Ysmir head into Labyrinthian to get the stupid Staff.**


	73. Chapter 73: Sex, Lies, and Deceit

**You'll notice that this chapter is nothing like as advertised last week. **¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

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Serana toyed with the mead bottle she held, aware that she was only fooling the humans around her into thinking that it was only mead inside it. Farkas had wrinkled his nose a little when she sat down, then grinned a welcome, only to wince as the movement shifted something in his aching skull. Head injuries were delicate things, and Danica had spent the better part of a day carefully piecing his skull back together. The only thing that had saved him was Arcadia running up from the Alchemy shop with half a dozen magicka boosters and all the healing potions she had in stock. Serana had been given _carte blanche_ to head down there and make more potions so the alchemist could stay and assist with her limited Restoration skills. Since Serana's own magicka supply was fairly low—not to mention the effect all that blood was having on her overstimulated senses—she happily fled down to the welcome distraction that creating a good potion provided. Now she finally knew why her mother had spent what amounted to decades in her lab before finally breaking with her father.

Someone cleared their throat behind her and she turned, surprised to find Vilkas gazing down at her with a slightly nervous air. "Kodlak asked me to come get you. We have a problem he thinks you might be able to help with."

Frowning in puzzlement, Serana nodded, rising from her place and following the werewolf down the stairs, only to halt just before the door. She actually had to retreat to a higher step to avoid crashing into him. He hesitated, staring at the doorknob as if it held the answers to all life's questions if only he could puzzle them out, then sighed. "I never thanked you, for what you did," he stated awkwardly, and now the vampire realized why he had been avoiding her the last few days. Contrary to what she might expect, he didn't seem to be choking on the words. It wasn't just a sense of honor prompting this; he really meant to express gratitude, something she expected didn't come easily to Vilkas.

He tensed further at her silence and glanced up at her, scowling a little at her blank expression. "I…I know I haven't always been the most courteous to you," he began, and she couldn't have stopped her eyebrows shooting up if she'd wanted to, "but I…without your aid, Farkas probably would be…I mean…"

"You're welcome," she interrupted before he could get more frustrated and tongue-tied than he already was.

There was a moment of silence before he looked up, silver eyes as astonished as hers had been. "What?" he asked, as if he suspected he hadn't heard correctly.

"You're welcome. Now, didn't Kodlak want to see me?" she prompted, motioning toward the door with her blood-filled mead bottle. Vilkas's nose twitched, and she knew he smelled it.

The werewolf gazed at her suspiciously, and she gave him an irate look, "You're not going to give me grief over this?" he finally asked, as if the question was torn from him.

Serana smirked and assured him in the most convivial tone she could summon, "Oh, I will continue to give you grief until you turn old and grey as your Harbinger, but now's not the time for barbed witticisms, as enjoyable as they are. Perhaps later." Patting the startled man on the shoulder, she eeled past him and into the lower quarters, chuckling to herself—and knowing he could hear it as well as another vampire would—as she made her way back to Kodlak's room.

Frothar sat on the bench there, Runa beside him, while Kodlak sat in his normal place and regarded them both worriedly. Serana paused, examining the pair and hoping their little budding romance hadn't bloomed suddenly enough to make them do something stupid. Frothar looked up as she walked in, giving her another shock. The raw pink glint of newly mended flesh cut across his face, from the top right of his forehead to his lower left ear, interrupting his eyebrow and bisected by the white blankness of his left eye. She hadn't realized the blow had been so damaging to the boy, and she found herself impressed that he had continued fighting.

Catching herself, she turned to Kodlak. "You wanted to see me?"

Kodlak nodded, looking as troubled as she'd ever seen him. "Close the door, Vilkas."

Vilkas did so, leaning against it and motioning for her to take the last remaining chair, which she did, looking back toward the young pair. "Now, lad, what is it you wanted to tell us?" Kodlak asked the boy with an understanding tone, but Serana noted the way his eyes lingered on the children's clasped hands, and thought perhaps his musings had followed the same vein as hers.

"It's…It's Nelkir," Frothar said, not noticing as every adult in the room relaxed subtly. "He's…he used to be real sweet, almost girlish sometimes. He wasn't like how he is now. He was quiet, and just followed me around like a puppy. He adored Father and was shy of pretty much everyone. That changed when he met…her."

Serana frowned, and she wasn't the only one. "Her?" she prompted.

Frothar shook his head, frustrated. "I don't know who she is. She's been locked in the basement all our lives, so I always assumed she was a crazed relative or something, but she talks to Nelkir. Tells him things. He calls her the Whispering Lady, and every time he talks to her he just gets more and more…well, angry. He said that she keeps laughing at him, and he's going to make her talk to him again, so I finally told Father."

Runa squeezed his hand, rubbing his back soothingly with the other. "Tell them what you told me," she encouraged.

The boy closed his eyes, as if what he had to say pained him. "Father went pale. I've never seen him look like that. He was frightened. He locked me and Nelkir in our room and he's been arguing with Farengar, Irileth, and Uncle since then. Irileth stormed out and let me out, told me to get myself away from Nelkir. That's all I know, but…I think Father needs help, and I have no idea where else to turn."

It would have taken stronger warriors than even the Companions to ignore the beseeching look Runa gave them all. "Where is this Whispering Lady?" Vilkas asked the boy directly. Frothar straightened and met his gaze, and Serana's lips twitched slightly as she tried not to smile.

"She's in the Dragonsreach basement, under the kitchen," he supplied. "You'll know the door—it's covered in bloodstains that won't come out. I've overheard the servants complain about it, but they tend to avoid the area."

Kodlak nodded and turned to her. "Serana, you know more about magic than any of us. This woman, if she is not mad, must be getting her information somehow, and it sounds as if she isn't getting it from the boy."

"You think she is a mage," Serana stated, feeling a sinking feeling in her stomach at Kodlak's nod. "Unless someone has been bringing her supplies, there is no way that I know of for her to be getting this information, except…" she hesitated as they watched her closely. "It is not out of the question that she is simply someone with the Sight, and people have been thought mad for having that ability, if it did not actually drive them mad in the first place."

Vilkas narrowed his eyes, "But that's not what you think is happening. What are you not sharing?" he demanded.

He seemed genuinely startled by the furious look she shot him. The prick of her fangs on her bottom lip made her check herself, closing eyes that burned a little too brightly before she scared the children. "Who first called her the Whispering Lady?" she asked the boy, "Your brother, or does she refer to herself that way?"

Glancing uncertainly from Vilkas to her, Frothar shrugged. "I don't know. Why?"

Searching his face for a moment, Serana finally sighed. "I suppose you've seen enough that this isn't beyond you, but I would rather you and Runa step outside a moment."

The boy scowled, but Runa shook her head admonishingly at him. "Let us know when you can," she simply stated, standing and pulling the boy after her. Giving them all a worried look, she led the Jarl's son from the room. Serana heaved a relieved sigh. She knew the pair had been through a lot lately, but the last time she had assumed a child was mature enough for something he had wound up in the grasp of Sithis. She'd much rather error on the side of caution.

Vilkas closed the door behind them, listening until their footsteps receded before turning back to them and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well?" he prompted, all the awkwardness of earlier gone. Serana was a bit disappointed; she had rather enjoyed watching Vilkas squirm. He was almost as fun as Isran.

Taking a deep breath, she finally opened her eyes to let them see the worry there. "The Lady of Whispers is an old name for the Daedric Prince Mephala."

.

* * *

.

Balgruuf was understandably startled when Vilkas shoved his way into the Jarl's quarters, but the moment of hesitation when the Whiterun Guard had seen the Harbinger had been all he needed to get by them. Irileth was nowhere to be seen, but the Jarl sat around a small, circular table in his room with his brother on one side and his court wizard on the other, looking as if he desperately wanted a drink.

"Balgruuf," Kodlak said disapprovingly, moving to stand behind the last chair with his arms crossed, "When that Blade cooled the fires of the Skyforge I thought you pledged to get rid of it."

The man's face went blank in surprise, "How did you know?" he finally got out.

Kodlak's face darkened. "Your son has been spending a great deal of time in Jorrvaskr lately. Did you think I wouldn't hear of this 'Whispering Lady?' Good gods, man, what were you thinking? That cursed thing caused the death of your wife!"

The Jarl shot to his feet, indignation in every line of him. "You may be Harbinger, but no man speaks to me like that in my own city!"

"You let Irileth get away with it," Hrongar muttered, and he _was_ drinking. His brother gave him a furious glared but he remained unperturbed by it. "Balgruuf, I thought you had gotten rid of that thing long ago. Now you tell me that it has been poisoning your son. Who knows what else it's been doing? We don't know how much power it has."

All the fight seemed to leach out of the Jarl in an instant, and Vilkas was surprised by how old the man looked. Balgruuf fell back onto his chair, rubbing his face with his hands for a moment. "I didn't know what to do," he finally admitted it. "Nothing destroyed it! Not steel or magic or the hottest flame. Was I simply supposed to discard it somewhere some innocent person would one day pick it up? I thought if I could just lock it away long enough, the power would be lessened, and it could be destroyed."

"The power of the Ebony Blade comes from lies and deceit," Serana put in with unexpected gentleness, her face filled with sympathy. "If you truly wish to weaken the Blade, there must not be anything for it to feed upon."

For a long moment the Jarl stared at the table, silent. He took a deep breath, then rose all at once, going to the door and opening it, saying something to the guard there. It was but a moment before the man returned, trailing the sullen son of the Jarl with him. "Thank you," Balgruuf told the man, closing the door.

Nelkir ignored him entirely, sharp eyes flickering to each person before he strode over to the chair his father had vacated, pausing a moment before deciding to stand.

"Nelkir," Balgruuf said haltingly, sitting again and taking the boy's hands in his own. Nelkir ripped away from him, face an open book of mistrust and loathing. Vilkas felt unexpectedly sympathetic toward the man—he couldn't imagine one of his own children looking at him like that.

The Jarl closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. "I know you don't want to talk to me. I can only imagine what you've heard—" he paused when the child snorted derisively, looking away from his father as if he couldn't stand the sight of him, "—but I'm going to tell you a story. A true story, here, before all these witnesses, so if I lie may Talos strike me down."

Now, at last, some expression flickered over the boy's face. He looked surprised, then vaguely interested. He didn't look back at his father, but he didn't move away either.

"Years ago, there was a pair of sisters, Kajsa and Eivor. They were alike as twins, and different as a wolf to an elk. And, unbeknownst to anyone, they both were interested in the same man—the son of their Jarl. He only had eyes for the softer of the pair, Eivor, and in time the pair was wedded. Kajsa seemed to get over her infatuation and went off to become an adventurer in Cyrodiil, and Eivor became a much-beloved lady of her Hold. She bore her husband two heirs, but being pregnant was hard on her body. She wrote her sister, who came home and became the lady's Housecarl, bringing with her tales of far-off lands, and an ebon sword in the Akaviri style. Even with her sister's added care, Eivor became weaker and weaker. It surprised the Jarl when she would come to him, but he loved her and would deny her nothing."

Balgruuf swallowed, his voice rough. "It wasn't until Kajsa began to show her pregnancy that he realized that he had been deceived by potions slipped into his drink into thinking the woman who came to him was his wife. Eivor did not hold grudges and forgave her sister when she asked for forgiveness, confessing her long admiration of her sister's husband. The rest of the family was not so quick to forget, and the scandal was covered up. The child was born and named Nelkir, and he was raised by both sisters in his rightful place as the Jarl's son."

Nelkir jumped as if he had been stung, staring at his father with wide eyes.

Bitter tears cut paths down the Jarl's cheeks, but he neither moved to brush them away nor even looked away from his youngest. "But this is not the end of the tale," he croaked.

Hrongar looked worriedly from his nephew to his brother, "Surely that's enough, Balgruuf."

"He deserves to know all of it," the Jarl stated, reaching out to his son again. This time, the boy didn't pull his hands away.

"But," Hrongar glanced around, aware of just how much dirty laundry their guests were going to see, "Now? Don't you think you should wait until he's…older?"

Nelkir shook his head frantically, brown hair flying. "No! Tell me."

"Kajsa was not content with being a mere Housecarl. She continued to plot against her sister, cementing her place in the Jarl's house so she would be the clear replacement when the weak lady died, poisoned to slow death by her own sister over a matter of years. One day, when the lady was feeling particularly ill, her daughter helped her trick the servants into thinking she had eaten all her food. Little Dagny also became weak and ill, and Eivor realized her sister's deception. Not wanting to believe her own kin capable of such evil, she invited her sister to confess, bringing her husband and some few of the court to bear witness. When confronted, Kajsa confessed to everything, but she refused repentance, declaring that _she_ should have been the Lady of Dragonsreach all along, and that Eivor was in her way. She knew this was true, because the sword she carried had told her so. Caught, she moved to slay her sister, but the Jarl got between them. Her sword stabbed through his side, and through her chest. Kajsa fled the palace. The Jarl's brother went after her, and she was caught on the walkway to the palace, where she fell into the spring. The sword fell upon the stairs, where a guardsman picked it up."

Balgruuf paused again, still staring into his son's astonished eyes. "The sword spoke to the man, telling him to kill his fellows, and he did. He created such havoc that Kajsa drowned, unable to swim with her wounds, before anyone could even get to her. The guard was brought down, and another picked up the sword. He, too, turned on his fellows until he was brought down. By morning, five good men were dead with that sword in their hands, and many more fell in their crazed attacks. It remained on the walkway until the Priestess of Kynareth came up from the Temple. The Jarl tried to have it destroyed, but ebony could not break it, fire could not melt it, and magic could not dispel it. Finally, he had it locked up in the basement, where he hoped its whispers would never reach beyond the door to hurt those he cared about ever again."

Abruptly, Nelkir jerked his hands out of Balgruuf's. "You're lying!" he yelled, face twisted into an ugly grimace.

"I will show you," Balgruuf said, deflating the child entirely. "If you really won't believe me, I'll show you the truth with your own eyes."

"You'll let me see her?" the child asked, sounding caught between mistrust and eagerness, "You'll really let me see the Whispering Lady?"

"Brother," Hrongar protested, then stopped when Balgruuf held up a tired hand. Wordlessly, the Jarl led his disbelieving son and anxious guests down into the main body of the palace, through the throne room and the kitchen, then into the basement. Shakily, he reached into his robes and pulled out a ring of keys. "I never thought to be opening this door again," he said, then paused when a thud came from behind the closed, bloody door.

Vilkas frowned. "There's already someone in there!" he declared, rushing forward and turning the knob. The door swung open with a loud squeal of protesting hinges.

Irileth stood in the middle of the room, feet splayed, her face a mask of concentration as sweat broke out on her brow. In her hands she held a two-handed katana that sported a sullen red glow along its black surface, as if it could never be cleansed of all the blood it had soaked in.

"Irileth!" Balgruuf breathed, horrified.

"Don't come near!" she yelled, shaking. Laughter filled the room, sending shivers down the spines of the witnesses.

Nelkir's eyes widened, "That's her!" he cried. "That's the voice of the Whispering Lady!"

Serana shoved him back as Vilkas shouldered his way past the Jarl, closing the door behind him and locking out everyone else. Moving quickly, he grabbed the Housecarl's wrists, twisting until she dropped the Ebony Blade with a gasp. Warily, he gazed at the sword as it settled with a clatter, that smooth laughter like poisoned honey still echoing in his mind.

"At last," the voice laughed, "I've been waiting for someone fit to carry out my will." Vilkas's eyes widened, staring at the gleaming gold glinting along the hilt and guard of the Blade, mesmerized. Some part in the back of his mind finally understood what Ysmir had meant when she described Hermaeus Mora's voice as "lilting," for he could find no other word for the musical cadence the female voice spoke with, as if the speaker were dancing around inside his consciousness.

"The child is spirited, but lacks…agency," she continued. "The boy was good at sussing out secrets. You, though, I expect to take a much more active role," she sighed, her voice flowing over him like warm silk and suddenly Vilkas recalled that they called her the Daedra of sex, as well as lies and deceit. "Pick up my Blade," she all but moaned, "I'd much rather it be in the hands of an ambitious, talented person such as yourself."

Licking lips that felt dry as the sands of Hammerfell, he strengthened his will against the voice that tried to set his blood alight. "You're not going to seduce me into serving you, demon," he growled.

That ripple of laughter echoed through him again, making him shudder. "You say that now, Hound of Hircine, but you have already been seduced. We have some goal in common, I think. The woman you love rejected you. You opened yourself to her and she turned from you. She could not love you because she, too, had been seduced, by the once-mortal that murdered my dear Brother. Take my Blade and enact your vengeance, and mine. You cannot destroy him, but you can kill her, and he will be wounded, weakened. Her death will torment him forever. Slay the Dragonborn with my darling Blade, and its grandeur will be a match for your own, and you will become my Champion. You will be my instrument, and we will destroy Miraak together."

Ghostly arms encircled him, and he swore he could feel the Daedra's breath upon the shell of his ear. Vilkas trembled, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. "Never," he ground out, but he couldn't move away. He would no sooner reach for the Ebony Blade than he would cut down a child, but the Daedra would not let him move away.

"You will do this," she breathed, sounding amused at his refusal. "We both have much to gain."

The spell was broken as his face exploded in pain.

.

* * *

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Serana turned to the Jarl as Vilkas slammed the door behind him. "Irileth!" the man cried again, frantically trying to get past her to the door. Ripping the keys from his hand, she tossed them to Kodlak. "Lock the door behind me and do not open it until we both say to," she ordered the shocked Harbinger. Before he could protest, she yanked the door open and jammed it shut behind her. Vilkas was in the process of forcing the Dunmer to drop the sword, and the woman was sent sprawling. Dropping down next to her, Serana grabbed the woman's head, forcing her to meet her gaze.

Even before Harkon had offered her to Molag Bal, Serana knew how to spot Daedric taint. She had seen it in her father every day, though she hadn't known at the time what exactly she was looking at. She should have seen it in Nelkir, if only she had gotten past the brattiness to search deeper. The red eyes that locked with her amber ones were wide and frightened, but free of the grasp of the Daedra.

"I had to protect him," the woman said, sounding dazed. "I thought if I could just get it out of Dragonsreach..."

"You thought wrong," Serana told her bluntly. Kodlak hadn't locked the door yet—probably debating if it was honorable to leave her locked in there with his best warrior and an evil sword well known for causing insanity. Yanking the Housecarl up, the vampire half-lead, half dragged her to the door. Flinging it open to see Kodlak standing there about to put the key in the hole, she shoved Irileth at her Jarl and slammed it in the Harbinger's face.

It was better that way; Irileth was free of Daedric taint, but it was swirling heavily around Vilkas.

The werewolf stood, hands clenched into fists and eyes turned inward, face pointed toward the Ebony Blade. Skirting around the thing warily, Serana peered into his eyes. He looked furious, but for once that expression was unaccompanied by wolfish traits. Wisps of dark, ethereal thread seemed to move over him, as if something were trying to weave a web about him. Faintly, Serana could hear a woman speaking coaxingly, her tone enough to make Sanguine blush, but she couldn't make out what was being said.

An ember of gold flickered in the silver eyes, and the man growled something.

The tendrils of power tightened, and Serana had had enough.

Vilkas was caught flat-footed, and went sprawling, the webs about him shattering like actual spiders' webs. He gazed up at her in shock, hand going reflexively to his jaw.

"Bloody mother of Malacath!" Serana swore, shaking her hand and sending a pulse of healing through her broken knuckles. "I had no idea your head was that hard!"

Vilkas spat out a tooth, giving her an irate look that melted into relief. "She stopped talking," he breathed.

The vampire's eyebrows shot up, "Really? That's lucky; I'm pretty sure Molag Bal never shuts up when he has you in his grasp." She shuddered, shaking off memories thousands of years old but still fresh in her mind's eye. Flexing her hand as her bones worked their way back into place, she regarded the sword thoughtfully. "I can barely hear her. I wonder if it is because I'm a vampire."

"She had no problem talking to me," he pointed out, picking himself up off the floor and regarding the Blade as if he expected it to bite.

Reaching down, Serana closed her hand around the hilt of the katana as Vilkas jumped back. "No!" a woman's voice snarled into her mind, the slow, seductive quality completely gone. "Give my Blade to the man! He and I have shared purpose! We will tear down my Brother's murderer and—"

"Ah, there it is," Serana said tiredly, stripping off her armor right in front of the scandalized Companion until she could remove her silk shirt. Honestly, the man acted as if he had never seen a woman before. She had her back to him and everything. Sliding her armor back on (uncomfortable without a shirt, but she'd most assuredly borne worse), she wrapped the Ebony Blade completely in the silk, until nothing showed and voice trailed off. It probably wouldn't have worked if the Blade had been at full power, but for now, the effects of the Daedra were muted. Glancing at Vilkas, she shrugged a bit. "Sorry about your tooth."

"It will grow back next time I transform," he assured her, probing his cheek. Serana considered healing it, then considered not healing it, decided it would be petty to leave him like that, and brought her hand up to his face, ignoring it when he flinched away from her.

"Now," she said, striding toward the door, "Let's get out of here. This place feels like a tomb."

"Right at home?" he scoffed.

"Not at all," she assured him with a bit of a shiver, glancing around. It was much bigger than the coffin her mother had sealed her in, but that didn't remove the omnipresent aura that pressed down on her. She knocked on the door and called for Kodlak, who insisted he hear Vilkas's voice as well before he opened the door.

Everyone was regarding them warily. Interestingly, the Housecarl was still where Serana had left her, in her Jarl's arms. Everyone was pale, and Kodlak in particular looked worried. "I'm afraid I can't wait for Ysmir anymore," she told him. "I need to get this somewhere it can't fall into mortal hands ever again."

"And where is that?" Balgruuf asked, sounding skeptical.

She stared at him for a long moment. "Probably better that you don't know."

Shoving past all of them, she put a hand on Nelkir's shoulder. "I'm sorry your friend turned out to be something else entirely. Some of the things she told you might be true, but you'll have to puzzle out which parts of it for yourself. Some will be only half-truths, and you'll need to figure those out yourself, too. But you should never, ever blindly believe someone who freely tells you secrets, especially those that hurt the people you're closest to. You're a smart boy, and you know people have their own agenda. Don't help them along by denying the people who are trustworthy."

The boy shook his head. "No one is trustworthy," he told her bleakly.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said truthfully, then moved on, back the way they had come and out to the Great Porch. Time had slipped away from them, and the sun was setting to the west. A few more moments and it would be gone completely, which was perfect for her. The guards were all in their mess hall, which was even more perfect.

"Serana!"

She sighed, turning to watch Vilkas trot towards her. He looked somewhat puzzled to find her there. "What are you doing? I thought you were taking the Blade away."

"I am. I need to move as quickly as I can," she informed him, mind already on the journey ahead. "Please tell Runa and Farkas I said goodbye. Oh, and tell Frothar that if he hurts Runa…ah, I don't know. Make up something threatening and vague and tell him I said it."

"What about you?" he asked, actually sounding worried about her.

Her eyebrows shot up and she couldn't resist the mocking smile that crossed her face. "Why, Vilkas, I didn't know you cared."

The werewolf glowered at her, which deepened when she snickered. "You fought for Jorrvaskr," he reminded her. "You helped defend my home and my family. For that, you have my respect."

"But not your trust, apparently," she surmised, eyes drawn back to the maroon silk bundle she held.

He scowled. "Can you really resist that thing? Is there anywhere something like that can go that mortals will be safe from it?"

Serana shrugged. "I was going to give it to an undead dragon with a habit of guarding things in a pocket plain of Oblivion where even Daedra aren't welcome, but it will probably return at some point."

The Volkihar princess had the pleasure of seeing Vilkas completely at a loss for what to say, his jaw working for a moment but no words accompanying the action. "That…that might work," he finally stated.

"For a while," she agreed. "Provided I can sneak it past the rest of my court. It will take some moving around in the daytime, but I've had to do that more than they would ever dream." Turning away, she winced as the smell of blood rose around her, smoke obscuring her body as she transformed. She gazed out over the dark plains behind Dragonsreach for a moment, wondering just how repulsed he was. "I am sorry to leave you and Farkas with telling Ysmir about Aventus. I feel like a coward."

"After today, that is the last thing I would call you," he assured her. "I wouldn't wish that sword on my worst enemy."

She laughed a little, the sound darker and many-layered in her Vampire Lord form. "Good to know. Goodbye, Vilkas," she said, and took off, carrying the Ebony Blade and its whispers with her into the night.

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**Uh. I wasn't sure I'd get to post this week, but at least this helped me get some of my jitters out. A lot has happened to me and I was, quite frankly, shocked that I was able to write at all. Starting at the top, my final is tomorrow. If I pass, I have a chance to get hired. If I don't, I pretty much wasted six weeks and a bunch of money. But I'll be able to do my taxes. As long as they aren't too complicated.**

**I'M AN AUNT! My sister had her baby last week. :) He's sooooo adorable, and everyone pretty much turns to mush around him (especially hilarious to watch in my sister, my mother, and definitely my father). When he's angry he flushes completely red, which is hilarious because my sister does that to this day. Since I could probably gush about him for a few thousand words or so, I'll move on. (Pictures on my tumblr.)**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! You guys are awesome! Welcome, new favorites and watchers!**

**LoveHopes: Thanks! ^_^ You know how much I enjoy snappy dialogue. If you'd just visit me I'd read it to you. ;P **

**Wynni: 0_0 Also having some familiarity with medieval torture devices, I find it interesting that you picked the one that makes me shudder the most. And that's saying something. Miraak can tell that she is unhappy, and that's only when he's focusing trying to find her. If he happened to check in when she was absorbing dragon souls, for instance, shit would get really real, very fast. As in, there would be a minor reenactment of the Oblivion Crisis in Eastmarch as he ripped the fabric of Mundus apart looking for her, and damned be the consequences. I'm going to have to take up Alchemy again. I know what weapon I'm using to kill Alduin next time. (All the souls pointing at the LDB with the Woody of DOOM and going "SEE!")**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Poor Valdimar-Ysmir forgot to have Miraak fix the bed before they left. o_0...**

**afeleon276: She could always go hang out with Aventus. Kidding. Kinda. Don't worry; there will be more Rommie. There will be sonnets and songs. Haskill, take this down! Oh, and another friend of mine is writing a fic with Ysmir in it, so if you still wanted to borrow Rommie, go ahead. ;)**

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**Next time, at a guess :P : What was supposed to be this week. **


	74. Chapter 74: Into Bromjunaar

Ysmir stepped onto the snow-covered stone of Labyrinthian, breathing out Aura Whisper just in case there were any more Frost Trolls lurking about, but only seeing a fox further up the pass. The icy wind off the plains whipped through the pass, howling around the remains of buildings and drifting the snow into large piles against them. Overhead, ancient cages creaked, the metal slightly rusted but somehow not falling to pieces. She took a moment to try to imagine it as Miraak had described it and failed. "Like Windhelm but cleaner" wasn't the best description, and she was having a difficult time equating the ancient architecture found in ruins with the Windhelm she knew, though the place had been supposedly built by Ysgramor himself (or, rather, elven slaves of Ysgramor and the other Atmoran settlers), she thought perhaps it had been refaced at least once over the centuries. On the other hand, the abandoned cities most certainly had been remodeled when they became massive tombs.

Static lifted her hair slightly, and she turned to consider its source with a thoughtful expression, tucking the errant locks behind her ears. "You know," she mused, "I could get used to traveling by portal. It would have taken at least two days to get here otherwise."

"I'm not going to ferry you around Skyrim, Ysmir," Miraak informed her acerbically.

"Of course not; you have better things to do, like plot global domination," she replied loftily, walking away from him and towards the highest point in the city. If she were going to have to go through the place looking for doors, she at least wanted to be able to survey where some of said doors might be, since Miraak's knowledge of the place was ancient and therefore completely unhelpful. Such as the facades of the buildings being similar to the Palace of Kings—if there was no evidence of even that, how else had the place been changed since he'd lived there?

He actually groaned. That was interesting; she didn't think she'd ever made him groan before. Not in exasperation, anyway. "Are you going to complain about this the whole time?"

She whirled on him, both hands on her hips. "Miraak, you are going to live forever. I don't see why overthrowing all stable forms of government can't wait until I'm not around for people to come running to, because you know they will. What am I supposed to do then? Tell them no thank you, the Daedric Prince with the big army is my lover and the father of my child, and I don't feel like breaking her heart by killing him?"

"What makes you think I'll need an army?" he asked, brow arched. "I thought I'd proven more subtle than that."

"Because horribly murdering someone who'd made my life difficult was very subtle," Ysmir shot back, rolling her eyes.

He shrugged, "I was angry."

"Got carried away?" she scoffed, striding up the surprisingly well-kept stairs with ease.

His gaze darkened, shadows seeming to collect around him. "Killed him too quickly, actually."

Ysmir paused, glancing at him as she recalled that he could read minds now, and wondered just what he had seen in Siddgeir's head to make him hate the man so much. Recalling some of her own suspicions, she decided she'd rather not know. Letting her gaze sweep forward again, she frowned, spotting something at the top of the stairs. "Arch-Mage!" she cried in horror, running up to the specter. "Arch-Mage?" she echoed, peering closely at him, but he didn't seem to see her.

"He's a memory, Ysmir," Miraak informed her, softening slightly when he saw her dismay. "This place is full of them."

The pleading look she shot him twisted his stomach a bit. "So there's a chance he might be alive?" He shook his head, and her sorrow showed through for a moment before she shut her eyes, collecting herself. When they opened again, she was all business. "Let's see what he has to show us, then."

_"Come on, we're finally here! Let's not waste any more time,"_ Savos said excitedly, sounding much younger than she had ever heard. It was rather difficult to tell the age of elves between when they gained their majority and when they finally started to show signs of age—his specter looked very little different than the man who had given her a Staff of Magelight to help her through old ruins.

_"Are we truly sure this is a good idea?" _

Ysmir jumped, glancing around as several more shades took shape. It seemed this had been an expedition. Unlike the Saarthal one, however, this appeared to have been contrived completely by apprentices. She didn't see a higher level robe among them.

_"We'll be back at the College before anyone even knows we're gone!"_ a human woman cajoled, and Ysmir winced, reflecting that those words never seemed to end well.

A man that appeared to be Bosmer sneered at the Redguard woman._ "You would care about that, since you're the Arch-Mage's favorite!_"

_"Don't forget, this whole idea was Atmah's to begin with,"_ Savos said soothingly.

The lone Nord amongst them sighed, _"Let's just get inside. See what's in there."_ With that, the group vanished.

A swift look at Miraak proved he suspected the same she did, "This is going to end horribly," she predicted with a sigh. Shaking her head at the ancient apprentices' folly, she placed the Torc in the doorway, which slid open much as the entrance to Shalidor's Maze had. With a last, lingering look at the sky, she ducked inside.

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The entranceway was vast. The large room was spilt into two by a viewing pool and overarching bridge, with a pair of carved pillars framing the circular door at the other end. She wondered briefly if the scattered bones just in the entrance were those of the expedition, but was quickly disabused of that notion when the entire group materialized just before that far door, as if they were conferring.

_"I can't believe we're doing this,"_ the Dunmer woman exclaimed, excitement and apprehension warring in her tone and making her sound quite breathless.

_"Can you imagine the looks on their faces when we come back?"_ Savos retorted gleefully. Ysmir thought that he must have been very young indeed as she watched, sorrowfully noting how his face lit with excitement.

The Nord rolled his eyes. _"You keep talking like we'll find something useful in here."_

Savos expounded on the possible treasures inside as Ysmir turned, seeing Miraak stroll along the perimeter of the room, face closed but eyes dark with whatever thoughts preoccupied him. He showed little sign that he was paying any attention to the revenants, until the Argonian asked about "things" that might have been left as guards, and he snorted disdainfully. The scoffing laughter elicited when Atmah boasted that they would be fine had very little humor in it.

He caught her examination of him just as the specters vanished into mist. "If I had so much as a wisp of a thought that any of these children made it out of here it just died a merciless death."

She nodded reluctant agreement, "I'm definitely telling that to Inigo to add to his list of famous last words." Eyeing the doorway doubtfully, she stated, "I hope the Arch-Mage didn't lock them all."

"It would be a good opportunity to teach you the Open spell," he teased, glancing at her, "If you ask nicely, of course."

"Why am I subjecting myself to your presence again?" she asked, throwing up her hands.

"I am an awe-inspiring legend," Miraak told her seriously. She wasn't entirely sure he was joking.

"You are a pain in the ass," she corrected, watching him closely. "And through some insanity that doesn't bother me nearly as much as it should."

"Oh, look," he said, rather than responding, "a spell tome." Picking it up, he smirked. "Telekinesis. Do you need that as well, since your own spell list seems to have some holes?" he asked, tossing it to her.

She caught the tome and sent it hurtling back at his head, putting her hands on her hips. "All right; what is wrong?"

Miraak's expression was a mask of unruffled puzzlement, the book vanishing into thin air before it reached him. "What do you mean?"

Not fooled in the slightest, she narrowed her eyes at him warningly. "Your jaw hasn't unclenched since we climbed the stairs to this place. Your shoulders are half an inch higher than when you're relaxed, and a vein next to your eye is throbbing so much that I can see it from here. Also, your hands keep curling into fists. Out with it."

The look in his mismatched eyes could have withered her entire garden. "I am not one of your children, Ysmir. It is not fitting that you should talk to me as if I was."

"Then don't try to hide something so obvious from me," Ysmir responded, her face softening as she walked toward him. "Is it this place?"

He gave in with a rueful little exhalation, leaning against the table. "I lived here through most of my adolescence," he said, surprising her. "Some of my first thoughts on walking through those doors were how grand it was, and in time I took pride to be part of that grandeur. To see it in such a state…" Miraak shook his head, trailing off as he glanced about the room again, apparently for once at a loss for words.

Ysmir's lips parted in realization, then pressed together tightly as she lowered her eyes, thinking of her house, and how sickened she had felt when she saw it ransacked, as if someone had stomped on her memories themselves. The memories of all the various tombs she had been through interjected on that thought, flickering through her mind like a whirlwind of decay. Many of them were also once cities or citadels. Imagining Solitude or Whiterun in the same derelict state almost made her ill.

"Was it just the Dragon Cult cities?" she asked him. "I know the Hold Capitols are just as ancient: Why are they still cities while so many others were closed off?"

"They thought Alduin would resurrect them," he scoffed bitterly, striding to the door. "Even the Priests thought that one day the World Eater would use his powers on lowly humans and restore them from death. Entire populations dismantled their cities, using the stones from their very homes to make tombs. They built their own graves then laid down upon them as the Priests sent their magic in, ensuring their followers would never truly die so that they could continue to rise and give life energy to the Priests until Alduin returned. With each passing century, they lost a bit more of their souls to the Priests. None of them ever reached an afterlife that I know of."

"So they will eventually run out of life-energy to give?" she speculated, curious. She'd always wondered why, if draugr were dead, they yielded any soul at all, but most particularly why the dead men and women could be Soul Trapped without a black soul gem.

"Perhaps. They may be connected directly with Aetherius, and will go on until the end of the Kalpa. Only time will tell," he shrugged dismissively and went through the door before she could ask him what a "kalpa" was. She'd heard the word before, from Paarthurnax, but at the time had assumed it was a draconic notion.

Ysmir jogged to catch up, slowing once she was striding beside him and risking a glance at his face, pleased to see that he wasn't hiding all of his remorse at seeing the place in such a state anymore, even as it prompted a strange urge to comfort him. "Do you have many good memories of this place?" she queried.

His eyes flickered down to hers, then back up. "Some." They reached an archway with a portcullis at the far end and a lever just to the left. Predictably, the lever opened the gate, but Miraak held her back when she moved to go forward, glancing around the inside walls suspiciously. "Once, there were two gates, and this hallway served as a bottleneck," he explained. "Anyone who wasn't supposed to be here would swiftly find himself trapped inside being covered in boiling oil or tar." Hakon, Saering, and he used to hide up there and drop beetles onto the heads of some of the stuffier priests when they came to visit, but he wasn't about to tell her that.

Ysmir glanced up unerringly at the slightly larger rock that apparently hid the murder hole. "And here I thought that was an Imperial tactic," she stated. "Looks stuck."

"I'd rather not chance it," he replied, picking her up without a by-your-leave and using Whirlwind Sprint to get through the portal before she could do more than squawk indignantly. Ysmir fumed at him, hitting him lightly in the chest with a fist as he glanced down in amusement.

The dragon skeleton erupting out of the earth saved him from a tongue-lashing.

Glancing around as—rather than put her down to allow her to fight like a sensible person—Miraak tightened his grip on her, Ysmir nodded. "Put me down, then put up a ward," she instructed.

Arrows bent around them like fish avoiding a rock in a river. "There's nothing blocking my abilities in here," he told her with calm self-assurance. "I can keep you safe."

"You better be able to keep yourself safe if you don't _put me down,"_ she growled. It did not help her ire any that she was actually higher up than when standing on her own two feet.

His lips quirked, but he put her down with a mock gallant gesture, stepping back. Raising her hands, she cast a Fire Storm to take out the nearby skeletons, then switched to Thunderbolts as the bleached and crusted bones of the dragon crawled towards her. It was ash before it reached her, and she waited expectantly for a moment or two, then cast a glare over her shoulder at her companion.

"Don't blame me," he snapped, "There was probably nothing there to take. I can't imagine a dragon would allow itself to be enthralled just to guard a human fortress."

She relaxed marginally, then a curious thought occurred to her and she asked, "Do you even _need _dragon souls anymore?"

He shrugged, "I don't dislike taking them, but I don't need their power anymore, no."

"Oh, good," she said, putting her hands on her hips again and giving him a severe look, "Then you can give back the ones you stole from me."

Miraak actually looked startled, then grinned. "I would if I could."

"You'd better," she warned, poking him in the chest.

With a bit of a laugh, he pulled her against him, "I'm sure I'll find a way to make it up to you," he assured her with a cocky smile.

The arrow that whizzed past his head made them both curse, and the skeleton disintegrated with barely a glare from Miraak. Ysmir wasn't certain if she were more impressed or irritated. Her baser mind chimed with the display of power, the dragons within humming approval, but she'd been recalled to the task at hand and wasn't about to let that distract her. "You'd better," she repeated with as stern a tone as she could muster, pushing away from him. She was used to his cockiness, and to an extent even his playfulness, but it was usually at her expense, not including her. It was with a bit of a shock that she realized she was enjoying herself, though she felt much less guilty about it now that she knew Darva's captors were unlikely to harm her.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, watching her as she struggled with her feelings.

Ysmir sighed. "The Arch-Mage is dead. People are dead, two of my children have been kidnapped by a dragon-hating harridan, Winterhold might just fall the rest of the way into the ocean, and I'm…" she grimaced.

Miraak tilted his head a bit, much like Odahviing or Paarthurnax did when they were thinking. "People are always dead or dying," he told her, and she glanced up in surprise, "if you force yourself to think on it all the time, you'll never stop."

"Still," she countered after a moment of consideration, "this isn't the time for games."

"Later, then," he capitulated, offering his arm as if to escort her to the dance floor. At her raised eyebrows, he offered a small grin, "This was a great hall once," he explained.

Shaking her head, but smiling, Ysmir took his arm with perfect Alinorian manners and let him escort her into the former capitol of the Dragon Cult.

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**I had a bit of a burst of creativity earlier this week, so hopefully I'll be able to get a bunch more written so I can post more frequently. I hope I haven't keep you all waiting too long. Stuff going on, as usual. Boyfriend decided we should reorganize the entire house for some weird reason, and is being pretty stubborn about it, so I suppose that's happening. At least I might finally get the bookshelves I've been wanting out of this. :/**

**Thank you guys for your patience with me! And for all the wonderful reviews! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**musicmidnight: There is certainly some mutual respect and Serana enjoying tweaking his temper, that is all I will say on the matter. ;P**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: It will certainly have one of the more impressive stories of how it got to the afterlife of furniture. Vilkas...would probably send some end tables to follow it. Maybe a chair or two. Or an Ikea store.**

**Wynni: You made it sound like I was going to forge a pear for a second and I was a little horrified. :P I always figured Balgruuf's wife being AWOL had to do with that sword. I also wondered what the heck that skeleton was doing in the pool out front, and went a little rampant with my speculations.**

**afeleon276: Irileth is way too serious and Balgruuf way too grumpy, so I pulled a Mara. Most of the scenes they talk in I'm looking at the computer going "Now...kiss!" anyway. Especially the one where she's telling him off for sneaking down to the inn.**

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**Next time*: Miraak becomes unaccountably grouchy at a magic-sucking voice.**

***I make no promises.**


	75. Chapter 75: The Voice in the Dark

Another draugr crumbled into dust before them, fragments of ligaments or leather straps tumbling away in the slight breeze of their passage. Ysmir sighed looking at it. She hadn't fully realized what Miraak being able to exercise his power would mean, and while she was learning quite a bit about the Dragon Cult—though very little about Miraak's actual time there, she noted—being in a ruin had gotten her blood up, and now there was no outlet for it. That part of her that she subconsciously thought of as her inner dragon was grumbling; it wanted a fight, not a history lesson. Even the part that had been impressed was growing tired of it.

Not that Miraak was crushing obstacles with barely a thought for her benefit. He was simply trying to make things go faster, since the ruins had changed enough that he was unsure that he could simply teleport himself to the end without ending up in a wall. Unpleasant for him, but fatal for her. They weren't even sure the Staff was at the end—it could be anywhere—but in Ysmir's experience, most things of note were kept as far from the entrance as could be contrived.

Ahead of them, a draugr stiffened from its post against a wall, stepping out into the walkway. Ysmir took it out with a fireball before Miraak had more than registered its presence. He glanced at her over his shoulder, probably raising an eyebrow if the tilt of his head was any indication. She gazed back steadily. "I thought we were in a hurry," he prodded.

"Then talk or something," she replied. "All this leisurely strolling about is giving me far too much time to think." Divines knew she needed her worries to stay safely tucked in the back of her mind until she was able to deal with them, or she would never get anything done.

He looked forward again, away from her. "I have a lot on my mind at the moment," was all he said, probably about as close to an apology as she was likely to get. He'd been broody ever since that voice barreled through the halls, draining her magicka and causing the bits of crumbling mortar to rain on them. She'd looked over to see his previously rather pensive expression become unreadable, save for a slight narrowing of his eyes and the clenching of his jaw. Then he'd slipped his mask back on and ceased pointing out features of the Temple—mostly stopped talking altogether, in fact.

"Then do what I do," Ysmir suggested helpfully, "Take your frustration out on the hapless draugr. Well, what I usually do when they're not crumbling to ash on sight." Miraak glanced rather pointedly at the smoking pile of ash that had been the undead she'd hit, and she shrugged, "I actually got to hit that one. There is a difference."

A familiar bark and hurried clanking echoed from somewhere ahead of them, and he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "By all means, then," he said, waving a hand toward the approaching pair of draugr.

Ysmir sighed, pulling out that glowing Daedric sword that very nearly made magelight unnecessary. "You're an ass," she informed him, then stepped into a shadow and vanished, light and all. Miraak jerked upward a little in surprise, casting about for her for a few moments before the draugr's death screech cut through the air. The sounds of battle spurred him onward, rounding a pillar to simply watch, a little taken aback. He'd never seen Ysmir _toy_ with an opponent before, and had assumed she wasn't the type. Darting in and out of her opponent's reach, her sword and dagger left small, energy-sapping wounds in their wake. There wasn't a mark on her yet. She must have been more eager for a fight than he had thought.

The Deathlord she was teasing wasn't nearly as appreciative of her quick, whirling movements as he was. Glowing blue eyes tracked her progress, and as she went to make another strike with the Daedric blade, it Shouted, seeking to disarm her. Seeing the indrawn breath, Ysmir surprised him by tumbling to the side, the force of the _thu'um _missing her by inches. Rolling to her feet, she hopped onto a table, launching herself into an aerial summersault that actually carried her over the twin horns of her opponent's helm, landing behind the startled Deathlord before shoving Dawnbreaker through the crumbling armor. Holy fire flashed from the blade, ripping through desiccated flesh and sending a shockwave through the room. Ysmir stood over it a moment, cheeks faintly flushed and chest heaving slightly, looking much more cheerful.

Miraak couldn't help but smile a bit, "Feel better?" he asked, not quite sarcastically but definitely with a hint of irony.

"Much," she replied, smiling cheekily at him as she sheathed her sword.

"I had no idea you were quite so…acrobatic," he admitted, though he had seen her perform some remarkable moves in Apocrypha when the landscape changed, he had assumed she was tumbling along because of the uncertain footing, not deliberately. She hadn't known he was watching her, of course; he was still sizing up the enemy at the time.

She chuckled, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I'll have to show you sometime," she purred, then laughed when he actually twitched at the suggestive tone. "Come on," she said cheerfully, threading her arm through his to continue on. "Judging from the grunting ahead there's a troll somewhere around here, and you seemed to enjoy cutting those down. Then we can get back to you smiting everything in our path, and maybe you can tell me all about the crazy, talkative thing stalking the halls and stealing my magicka."

He sighed. "Morokei," he supplied. "He was—is—a Dragon Priest, from about the same time I was."

There was a moment of silence as she processed this. "I've never met a Dragon Priest that could talk before. Besides you, I mean," she teased, glancing at him. Honestly, she was a little worried. She hadn't seen him so somber about an opponent since Hermaeus Mora.

His head rolled slightly, as if he were rolling his eyes. "The man never shut up in life. I see no reason for undeath to have changed him overmuch." There was another long pause before he added quietly, "I never thought I'd be forced to hear that voice again." She frowned at him questioningly, but he only shook his head, and she decided to let the matter drop for the moment.

They emerged onto a landing above a rather large room that appeared to be a gallery of some sort for the next one, judging from the windows at the far end. A steady stream of water gushed up nearby, which was probably why this room had a troll improbably living in it, making Ysmir wonder just how it had gotten in. Judging from the state of the thing it was finding draugr literally difficult to swallow, but Miraak put an end to its slow death by starvation by carving its head from its shoulders. Ysmir actually found it in her to pity the thing; there wasn't even enough fat on it to bother harvesting.

Moving on, Ysmir glanced around another large chamber, watching a pair of approaching skeletons crumble in on themselves as Morokei spoke again. _"You only face failure once more…"_ the guttural voice taunted them. Well, taunted Arch-Mage Aren. Ysmir shook her head, marveling that her former Arch-Mage had faced a fully awake Dragon Priest while still an Apprentice and lived to…well, not so much tell about it as try desperately to forget. No wonder he had eventually risen to lead the College.

Ysmir glanced toward the further part of the cave, shooting down the skeletal archers with what little magicka the voice had left her as she did so (why anyone would bother having skeletons guard something was beyond her), then across the bridge beside her. "Which way?" she asked, turning to look at Miraak, surprised to see him still standing on the stairs, shoulders tense and hands curled into fists, staring at the floor below them as if it had personally done him wrong. "Is something the matter?"

Morokei butted in before he could formulate a response. _"You...you are not Aren, are you? Has he sent you in his place?" _The amused contempt that shaded the other Dragon Priest's words finally seemed to snap something in him.

_"Do rahlo Zu'u los ni _Aren,_ hi lot hefhah!"_ he bellowed back, the raw hate in his voice making her flinch, eyes wide as the Temple lurched around them, rumbling ominously.

Ysmir fancied she could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. She swallowed, throat dry with instinctive dread that she fought down with effort, reminding herself that she had taken on Miraak before, and that he was no longer an enemy. He was, however, not even remotely under her control, and she realized that she actually had no idea how powerful he was even as a Dragonborn, let alone a Daedric Prince, and could only be thankful he had never directed that wrath at her. Shuddering a little, she looked away, uncertainty filling her.

Scuffling from across the bridge proved to be a troll barreling down the walkway toward her. It halted halfway and shrieked, a high keening she had never heard from a troll before. It was over in a second as the thing combusted, becoming a raging pillar of fire for a bare instant before it incinerated, the silhouette of ash seeming to hang in the air for another moment before collapsing in on itself.

_"Miraak?"_ the undead Priest finally replied, tone one of undiluted shock. _"Vax! Vir krilon hi daal het?"_

"And I thought regular draugr sounded angry," she muttered, completely at a loss.

_"Zu'u yah hin klov, nivahriin hef-jul,"_ Miraak growled, his tone sending prickles of icy terror down her spine. _"Ahrk daar tiid, til los nid uth do sonaak wah jaaril hin balnu iliis!"_

_"Mey!_" Morokei shot back, apparently unimpressed with the sheer bloodlust in Miraak's Voice, _"Hi lorot hi vis viik sahrot Morokei? Siiv zey ahrk mu fent koraav vahzah bal do suleyk hi grut mii fah."_

Miraak snarled, and Ysmir gritted her teeth, scooping up one of the scattered bones from the skeletons and hurling it at him hard enough to crack it on the gilded metal of his belt. He jumped, apparently so focused on his rival that he had forgotten her presence. "Would you two mind _not _bringing the temple down in your posturing?" she managed with deceptive calm.

"I was not 'posturing,'" he countered flatly. "I am going to destroy that man."

"It will be easier and probably more satisfying to do it where you can see him," she replied, much to his surprise.

"You're not going to try to talk me out it?" he asked after a moment. "You've never struck me as the type to be motivated purely by vengeance, or to approve of it. You're too…ethical." Her restraint in regards to Siddgeir had confirmed that, or so he had thought.

She shrugged, "I can be as vindictive as anyone; I just don't let it consume me. That narrows your focus—it gets you killed." Her gaze seemed to see right through his mask, as weighty a regard as any dragon he'd ever met, "But against someone that inspires the kind of hate you just displayed? Oh, I'll show you vengeance," she promised, the deadly intent in her voice as she thought of the one person she truly abhorred a match for anything Miraak had just said.

Miraak ripped his mask off, eyes blazing as he strode toward her, reaching her faster than he should have been able to move. She found herself pulled against him as he kissed her fiercely, possessively, for once without the least sensation that he was holding something back. Fear dissolved into something quite different, and she moaned quietly as he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. He crushed her against him, hard enough to hurt, and she dug her nails into his scalp in retaliation. The unexpected, coppery tang of blood shocked them into pulling back, and she touched her swollen lip gingerly as he watched with ebony eyes that nonetheless seemed to glow with their own inner light. Her fingers glimmered where a slight smear of blood painted them crimson.

Ysmir sighed, resting her forehead against his. "We are very bad at getting things done," she breathed ruefully.

"We can pick this up later," he promised, releasing her slowly to slide to the floor.

Again a wistful sigh as she healed her lip, "Much later, considering all we have to do yet."

"I trust you have no more objection to my clearing the path?" he inquired, eyes fading back to normal.

"Let's get this over with as quickly as we can," she agreed, heading on. "Divines only know what's going on while we're stuck in here."

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Brelyna stared out the window at the whirling wall that cut the College off from the rest of the world, her slender fingers clutched around her arms as she struggled to retain the calm façade she had erected.

Leala was crying again. Quietly, but Brelyna could hear the Altmer apprentice sobbing to herself by the Illusion section. It didn't seem to matter if they were close to the Eye or not, so she had gathered everyone in the Arcanaeum, much to Urag's displeasure. The apprentices were scared, but the Librarian had set them to looking for anything useful in the tomes. That was a week ago. A few long hours ago the Bosmer apprentice—she couldn't remember his name—had decided that a quick death was preferable to waiting around for Ancano to realize they were there. The boy had jumped off the balcony, vanishing into the whirling barrier below with a flash of lightning and the most horrid scream the Dunmer had ever had the misfortune to hear. Leala hadn't stopped crying since then, and while Brelyna could sympathize, it was wearing on her already frayed nerves.

Nirya shut her book with a snap that made them all jump, storming over to the weeping apprentice and glaring down at her balefully. "Do shut up," she said shortly. "We're all tired and tense, and your caterwauling isn't helping anything. Is it making you feel any better?" The poor girl shook her head, golden eyes wide. "Then cut it out. You're barely a century old; there will be other boys."

The Dunmer winced at the older elf's callousness, and unsurprisingly Leala broke into a fresh spate of tears. When Nirya looked as if she were about to upbraid the girl again she hurried over, softly placing her hand on the girl's shoulder and suggesting they take a walk. Calmly. That was the key; remain calm. If she stayed calm, perhaps others would too.

The Courtyard was deathly quiet under the sound of the barrier. It was strange to see it so still, without the near-constant snowfall that seemed to characterize this part of the world. The snow already on the ground looked dingy and old in the unmoving air, making the Dark Elf feel slightly claustrophobic. She glanced at the still-sniffling apprentice as they sank down onto the cold stone of the magelight well in front of the statue of Shalidor. Leala was awfully young to have left Alinor; Brelyna had barely been let out of the family home before she was eighty! Still, the pretty young thing was a gifted mage and very friendly, for a High Elf. She didn't think the Altmer and Bosmer had been lovers as Nirya assumed, but they most certainly had been friends, and it was hard to lose friends, especially when you didn't have that many.

"Shhh," she soothed, putting an arm around the girl and letting her weep on her shoulder. "It's going to be alright."

"H-h-_how?"_ the girl sobbed. "Meldil is _dead!_ And we're next!" she wailed, making Brelyna wince.

"No. This is just a temporary setback," she assured the apprentice. "Meldil is dead, yes, but we are getting out."

"How?" Leala demanded, sitting up and staring at Brelyna with wide, puffy eyes. "When? We've been here a w-week! There's barely any food left! And Nirya says we'll have to start melting the ice for water."

"We'll make it," the Dunmer assured her, letting no doubt creep into her tone.

"But we can't stop him!" the girl shrieked, pounding her fists on her knees so hard they probably left bruises. Brelyna worried that the poor child might not be far from a breakdown.

"Someone is coming to help. You'll see. Just a few more days."

"How do you know?"

Brelyna smiled, reaching out to sooth the girl's hair back the way her nursemaid used to when she was troubled by some childish woe. "A very reliable source told me," she informed the girl. With that, she led the apprentice to her own rooms in the upper level of the Hall of Attainment, gave her just enough shein to numb her, then helped her back to the Library as darkness fell. Nirya merely snorted when she realized the girl was drunk, but didn't say anything.

Brelyna was tempted to have a cup or twelve herself.

Leaving the apprentices curled up for warmth like so many kittens in the middle of the Arcanaeum, Brelyna headed downstairs, pausing to glance into the Hall of Elements, where Ancano was doing something unspecified with the Eye. They could neither enter nor look through the doors to see what it was, and the best spells any of the three older wizards knew did nothing against it.

"Heading back down again?" Urag asked from the shadows, making her jump. At her nod, he grunted and told her to say hello for him, then headed up the stairs. Poor man. His sacred space had been invaded by half a dozen youngsters and…well…Nirya. Wrinkling her nose a bit in sympathy, the Conjurer slipped out into the Courtyard, then over to a small, out-of-the-way hatch at the end of the walkway.

The Midden was freezing, as usual, and she pulled on the fur cape she had brought, then cast Candlelight to guide her way. There were neither spiders, nor draugr, nor ice wraiths down here anymore, for she frequented it enough for them to be eradicated almost as soon as they entered. A strange hum filled the twisted halls, getting louder the further down she went. Finally she was forced to stop, staring at the whirling barrier that passed through rock and ice and the door not more than a hand-span beyond it. What would happen when the barrier reached that room, she did not care to think on. Still, she gazed at it with worried, yearning eyes.

"Help is coming, right Augie?" she whispered, reaching out until she almost touched the barrier, frost and static dancing around her fingertips in warning.

As always since the barrier was erected, she was met with silence.

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**I have, for once, decided to put some translations here, since there was very little room to fit context into the story itself. I decided to just pretty much transcribe the conversation: **

**Morokei: **_"You...you are not Aren, are you? Has he sent you in his place?"_

**Miraak:**_ Of course I'm not Aren, you imbecile! _

**Morokei:**_"Miraak? Traitor! How dare you return here? "_

**Miraak:**_ "I seek your head, cowardly half-man. And this time, there is no Priesthood to protect your worthless hide!"_

**Morokei:**_ "Fool! You think you can defeat the mighty Morokei? Find me and we shall see the true worth of the power you betrayed us for."_

**.**

**My chinchillas have been little shits. Pretty much all that's been happening on this end.**

**Happy Skyrim's Birthday everyone! (A little belated, but hey.) The cake can be found in the Portal section. You should go there. It's so delicious and moist.**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**tinejensen: Good luck to you, as well.**

**afeleon276: Sorry Miraak talks smack in Dovahzul. :/ I thought the part where Morokei didn't want to speak common was hilarious. "This guttural language of yours," he says. Does Dovahzul strike you as being a fairly melodious language?**

**Wynni: Morokei killed Miraak's talkative mood. :( He must be punished. I hope you feel better.**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Vilkas is** **officially about to lose human bed privileges. Barbas has offered his kennel until he earns them back.**

**.**

**Next time*: Miraak takes a little detour to reclaim something of his. Meanwhile, a couple of Daedric Princes take us off on a tangent about the past, the future, Ysmir's surprising bloodline, and a spot of tea. Some of this was supposed to stay strictly headcannon, but then Rommy started talking. **

***Again, no promises.**


	76. Chapter 76: Daedric Musings

Spectral draugr. That was new. Ysmir looked down at the thing—and its dog—with interest, noting how the bones seemed to shine through like frozen lightning through mists. It was actually rather fascinating when it wasn't trying to kill her anymore. She could only imagine what the rest of the mages at the College would have made of it. "So is this what happens when their bodies finally give out?" she asked, poking it with Dawnbreaker. "They become _ghostly_ grumpy undead?"

Miraak shrugged disgustedly. "At a guess, this is what happens when Morokei decides he wants something different from all the other Priests."

Her mind chased that thought, trying to calculate how it would be accomplished and failing. She never had much to do with controlling undead, though. The times she had slain a subjugated ghost or reanimated corpse and have it thank her with its last breath had firmly put her off necromancy. "You make him sound like a petulant child," she remarked, lifting the draugr's sword and examining it curiously before stowing it in her bag.

He snorted. "That's not far off. Be glad you never met him at his height. He was an insufferable braggart and…was not too dissimilar to your Siddgeir, actually. In temperament, at any rate."

Ysmir gave an ostentatious shudder. "I'll remember that next time I count my blessings." Glancing down the passage, she sighed. "Was he a Conjurer, then? He seems to have a lot of different forms of undead. I certainly hope we don't run into another Wispmother." Her eyes flickered sideways at him, half-hidden by her lashes. "What did you do to her, anyway?"

Miraak shrugged, "No one really knows what Wispmothers are. I was just going to kill her, but she looked a great deal like a Snow Elf slave one of the other Priests used to keep. Since one of the theories about them is that they are the ghosts of Snow Elves, I thought I'd investigate a bit later."

"So…she's in Apocrypha?" she hazarded.

"Indeed."

This time her shudder was quite real. Turning, she headed down the tunnel to the waterfall that tumbled down from above, eyeing the grate there dubiously and seriously considering just skirting around and not risking it. Miraak took her hand without warning and she yelped, the room seeming to shift around them before coalescing into a different location. The water raining down on her head seemed to indicate that Miraak had decided down was the fastest rout.

Something moved in the corner of her vision, and she instinctively ducked. The troll bellowed, ignoring her for the moment in favor of the pair of spectral draugr trying to carve it to pieces. A skeleton started toward them just as they all shimmered, fading into dust. The troll simply dropped dead.

"A warning would be appreciated next time you—you know what? Just don't do that again," she groused, scowling at him.

Miraak gave her an innocent look that was wildly out of place on his face before continuing on, seeming to recognize where they were. Ysmir followed him out of the room, looking left and right. To the left was nothing but a blocked passage, a cluster of Bleeding Crowns growing out of a few battered pots; to the right a small stair descended to an ancient iron door. She started down before realizing that he had stopped. "What is it?" she asked curiously.

"If you still feel like beating on something, feel free. I'll meet up with you further down," he said.

"And you are going where?" she asked pointedly, crossing her arms.

Lifting one hand, Miraak made a shoving motion at the blocked passageway. The tumbled stone and debris shot down the hallway it had blocked off, apparently hitting at least one draugr from the sound, coming to rest in a plume of dust against a cross wall some distance away. "I need to retrieve something."

She tilted her head, curious. "You're fine with me taking on the rest on my own?"

He snorted. "I saw you playing with that Deathlord: I'm not worried. Perhaps if you were still wounded, but not now." Ysmir grinned, oddly gratified that he was acknowledging her abilities so willingly. "Just…do not face Morokei without me," he added.

"I thought you just said I could handle myself," she protested.

The wicked smile he gave her sent her pulse fluttering rapidly against her skin, "I have no doubt who would win if you met, and while it would be quite poetic for a woman to kill him, I want to kill that bastard myself." He glanced back at the door behind her as she let that sink in. "Go, have fun," he encouraged her, setting off down the hallway.

Ysmir glanced at the door, then back to his retreating form, conflicted. "Oh, bother! There are lots of other ruins, anyway," she reasoned, jogging after the other Dragonborn before curiosity could eat her alive. The little sideways look he gave her as she joined him told her he'd guessed this was exactly what she would choose. She considered turning back around for a long moment before letting out a long sigh. "Ass," she muttered irritably. His responding chuckle seemed to warm the long-dead halls around them.

.

* * *

.

"Thash a lot of_—hic!—_magic."

"It's making my teeth ache," Romulus agreed, watching the swirling storm around Winterhold. His white hair blew around in the fierce wind, his features a hybrid of the Mad God he now was and the human he had once been. Easier that way, even if he did look rather old. Well, he supposed he was. Not a pleasant thought, that. He let it drop out his ear and into the snow before he started to dwell on it. "It's kind of like when I went through the Gate at Kvatch. Everything ached for _days_ afterwards."

"Might've had somet'in to do with gettin' yer ass set on fire," Sam suggested, plopping down into the snow next to him. Well, onto the snow. Neither actually sank into it, though it did drift against them. He pulled out a bottle of Alto Wine. "Drink?"

"Nah," Romulus replied, watching a wandering ice wolf charge at them and idly turning it into a pink goat. For a while, they both sat in silence, watching the barrier pulse and whirl. "Which do you think will go first; the Altmer idiot or the veil of Mundus?"

Sam snorted, drawing rude pictures in the snow with the wine cork. "Win'erhold, o' course." He drew a couple of curling lines around a free-floating pair of breasts. "Any luck finding_—hic!—_Cutie Curls?" Sam asked after a few minutes, tossing the empty wine bottle at the goat. It struck, and the beast changed back into a wolf.

Romulus hit it with the Wabbajack again, and it turned into a rabbit, wandered over to a snowberry bush and started nibbling the leaves. That was going to give it a stomachache when it turned back. He flicked his fingers and gave it a tall black hat to cover its ears. "No. Still too much Aedra in the air," he groused, indicating the barrier. "Even before that there was so much Aedra around her it was like being hit by Mara with a sack full of baby skeevers…I wonder if they stashed her in an old Talos Temple. That would fit with the Blades." Well, the new, stupid segment of the Blades that made his former Blade self wince. Jauffre was probably rolling in his grave so hard the earth shook. He would have to check.

"Talos. Tosser. He wouldn't help if you asked him. He's still mortified she_—hic!—_exists," Sanguine griped. "Martin now, he at least admitted to his_—hic!—_indis—indu—bein' a man with needs. Well, 'e was one of mine for a while, after_—hic!—_all! His ancestor, though," the Daedric Prince of Debauchery shook his head in admonition. "I can't fault 'im for wantin' a piece of dat, but even I admit there might be…conse'ences now and then. Wouldn' have a healer 'orce her inta early labor to kill the kid, though. Dat was_—hic!—_cold."

Romulus gave him a droll look, "And how many illegitimate children do you have, Sanguine?"

"Er…Dunno," he gazed into the empty tankard he held before scooping up some snow in it, which promptly melted and turned honey-gold. "Heck, I pro'lly partied with_—hic!—_a few of 'em. Unknowing-like. My fo'wers don' like ta tell me dat stuff."

Romulus wrinkled his nose a little at the thought, turning back to watch Winterhold. The bunny made a squeaking noise, stiffened, then turned back into a wolf, the hat falling into the snow and turning into a couple of bees that instantly froze to death. Enraged, it charged Romulus—who hit it with the Wabbajack again, this time leaving a Nord woman sitting naked in the snow while she looked around, bewildered. Sam eyed her appreciatively.

"Wouldn' mind some, though," the drunkard added, earning him a skeptical look by the Prince of Madness. "Wha? I like kids. Well, they're growin' on me, anyhoo. Ysmir's 're cute. The troll-ridin' boy seemed fun, an' 'e was 'nother_—hic!—_Breton! And Little Lucy…er…I kinda feel bad 'bout her mum. Responsible-like." He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, "responsibility" not really being a concept he had more than a nodding acquaintance with at the best of times.

The Imperial snorted scathingly. "And if you had to do it all over again, would you do anything different? Took the bottle out of her hands in exchange for some nice tea, perhaps?"

Sam thought about that a moment. "I might'a told her to eat more_—hic!—_bread." He scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. "Dos kids, though, they got a lotta attention from livin' with 'er. Aedra claimin' some, Hercine getting downright pissy 'bout anyone messin' wit the oldest gel, the Old Man stakin' the Imperial boy…if we want 'em, we better claim 'em_—hic!—_fast."

Romulus frowned thoughtfully. "I don't like others making claims on my descendants, even the adopted ones. At least Darva should be relatively off-limits, thanks to her father."

"Speakin' of...Have you _seen_ what she is gunna look like when she grows up?" Sanguine asked enthusiastically. "You gotta stop havin' cute granddaughters, Rommy. I'm Daedra of—_hic!_—Debauchery; I'm not meant ta withstand tem-temptation."

Without looking at him, Romulus waved the Wabbajack in his face. "You are not immune to this."

The apparent Breton pouted, "Yer no fun when you go all papa bear. Kinda sexy, but not fun." Romulus merely lifted an eyebrow at that as Sam went back to watching the former ice wolf. "How long she gunna_—hic!—_stay like dat?"

Romulus shrugged, unconcerned, but Sanguine levered himself unsteadily to his feet, walked over to the ice wolf/woman trying unsuccessfully to get figure out how to walk in her strange new body, and scooped her up while she snarled at him. "I'd better get her somewhere warm before her_—hic!—_pretty bits fall off."

Watching as the other Daedra vanished in a swirl of black, Romulus briefly wondered what his chronically inebriated friend was going to do with her when she did change back, then decided he'd much rather not know. He had a lot to think on, anyway. Like Miraak and his granddaughter. And the Blades. And what his cute little Lydia was up to. And the possible ending of the world if aforementioned granddaughter and his newest Daedric brother didn't keep their hands off each other long enough to get back to Winterhold. Honestly, Haskill didn't need to go into such detail when reporting on their whereabouts; he'd already had enough horrifying mental images with Sanguine going on about tentacles.

Behind him, snow crunched under the weight of several large pairs of boots as a new party of observers crested the hill. "By the gods," a Nordic voice gasped. "So it's true!"

Glancing over his shoulder, Romulus watched the small squad of Stormcloaks gape at the city in dismay. The loud one with spiky gauntlets barked orders at the group of them, ordering some back to Windhelm to report, others off to this or that fort, while he was going down there to see what was going on, by Talos! Romulus snorted derisively, never having had more than an indifferent opinion of the God of Man to start with, and an even worse one when he met his half-elf wife and learned her story—mother forced to bear her prematurely, then taken home by the guilt-stricken healer to die in comfort at least. But she hadn't died, she had grown, the bastard daughter of Tiber Septim himself. Honestly, the woman was lucky that Martin was the only other Septim that ever learned about her. Not that she outlived the rest of them by much, but she and Martin had gotten on well. As a fellow bastard, he could relate.

The Stormcloaks jumped at the sound of his voice, finally noticing him, and drew their swords in drilled unison. "State your business, Imperial!" the bossy one demanded.

Sheogorath sighed. "Harik, I'm disappointed. I expected better from you!" he mock-admonished.

The former Whiterun guard paled. "You…you were on the Great Porch with the Dragonborn…She…she said you were…"

The Mad God smiled, all his teeth on show sparkling like the snow around them. "I think it's high time you visited yer uncle, don't you think? He's lonely at his little tea table!" Harik dropped his sword, turning to run as his fellows stared. Then the strange Imperial dissolved into a cloud of iridescent blue butterflies, surrounding the squad, and the world whirled and shook, and suddenly they were all at a table, tied to chairs three or four sizes too big for them.

"Now," Sheogorath crowed, "all the guests are here! Where's the entertainment? Haskill! Where's my Fool of Hearts?"

"You sent him back to Nirn when Sithis threatened to lock you in a realm with Meridia," his fuddy-duddy steward reminded him, sounding bored with the whole affair.

"Bah! Meridia! All I did was let one weensy little necromancer into her temple. Woman can't take a joke! Oh, well, it was getting quite annoying listening to him cry for his momma, even if she did seem to like Dementia." The Mad God frowned, then brightened. "I know! We can hear a story!" He clapped his hands, and all the Stormcloaks started struggling and swearing as an Altmer in Justiciar robes materialized at the far end of the table, her clothes and hair immaculate, and her yellow eyes just a tad too bright. "Duchess! Tell us all about when my darling granddaughter broke into your embassy."

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**Hello people! Let me just start by thanking all of you that have suck around this long, then go right to the bad news that I might have to go on complete hiatus come January. I might be working up to seventy hours a week, and that doesn't leave a lot of time for writing. I will try though.**

**So I was quite nervous about this chapter, mainly because I am introducing a headcannon I've had all along but never planned on sharing. I hope you all like it.**

**So my house is in complete disarray thanks to the room switching. It wouldn't bug me if I had places to put all the displaced stuff, but since I do not, it sits there getting on my nerves. I got to see my nephew again over Thanksgiving. He is wonderfully adorable and for some reason all the dogs get super protective of him, even Molly, who is a tiny beagle mix that is terrified of children. Probably because most of them are bigger than her and quite grabby.**

**My friend ronin-gh0st over at Deviantart is writing a cross-over fic with Ysmir and his Dragonborn! I'm so excited! It's fascinating seeing my baby through someone else's eyes. I don't know if he'll post it here, but his Frozen Skyrim crossover is. (Same name.) He did have my permission to do this, and is as much a believer in credit where it is due as I am.**

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed!**

**knightcommander (whenever you reach this): Thank you so much!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Cheese has been provided, but we still need a jumprope. Care to volunteer? **

**Wynni: I figure by now the College would have some new apprentices, since it seems to go through them so fast, due to...unfortunate transfers to the Void. **

**afeleon276: I hope you got a good Rommy fix, even if he was half Sheo. **

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**Next time*: Ysmir finally learns a little about Miraak's relationship with Morokei. **

***The gods laugh at the plans of mortals.**


	77. Chapter 77: Lorvodde

The passageway Miraak had revealed was much like any of the others; crumbling, lined with alcoves for corpses, and full of dead who hadn't quite understood they were supposed to _stay_ in those alcoves. Ysmir watched nervously as another Wight followed their progress, his head turning as they passed, though he didn't leave his niche. That was the biggest difference to any other tomb she had ever seen; draugr that not only didn't attack them, but occasionally bowed as they passed. It had been like this ever since they entered the personal quarters of the Dragon Priests. One look at Miraak's mask—even shoved up to the top of his head so Ysmir could talk to him properly—and the shambling corpses had shambled out of the way.

"I think I liked it better when they were crumbling into dust," she admitted, keeping close to Miraak's back as the luminous pits of the Draugr Wight's eyes vanished into the gloom behind them.

"I didn't think they would remember me," Miraak replied with a shrug. He was pleased about it, though. It meant he could return later to see what the others had left behind, while leaving the draugr guards in place. The last thing he wanted was for wide-eyed adventurers to stumble this far into the place. There were a few things he thought he might want here, and one he wasn't willing to wait to retrieve. It was his by right, and had rested here long enough.

"And they forgot all about you rebelling?" Ysmir skirted around a draugr just rising from his resting place, but all he did was issue a bow that was as much cringe as genuflection and begin to collect the ashes from a nearby brazier. "I find that hard to believe."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Priests went in and out of favor all the time, and no one would know why. It was Priests' business, and they kept their heads down and didn't ask questions. They lived longer that way. They didn't live long if they snubbed the disgraced Priest, either."

"Huh," Ysmir replied. "In the Thalmor, questions were allowed—encouraged even, as long as you waited to ask the right person at a later time. We were trained to see patterns in things, to make connections. That's difficult to do when missing information that could be key. Some of my earliest assignments were simply to sneak into a place to listen." She halted, realizing what she had just revealed so easily. Miraak half-turned to watch her, his posture conveying a bit of surprise. "Well, you're sharing so much," she rationalized, mortified.

There was a bit of a chuckle before he slipped her hand through the crook of his arm once more, leading her onwards. "I take it you haven't shared this with anyone else?" he queried, sounding curious.

Ysmir glanced away, aware she was blushing and feeling absurdly grateful that he hadn't brought it up. She shook her head, sending a lock of hair slipping over her shoulder. Pushing it back absently, she answered, "Inigo knows a little, but not really the details. I guess…I didn't want to burden people with it," she admitted. "My friend Hadvar—a Legionnaire I escaped Helgan with—he guessed some, but I never actually told him much. Ralof…" her voice faltered. "Ralof knew a lot more than anyone. I used to have horrible nightmares, you see. He'd get bits and pieces and…" she shook her head again. "I couldn't bring myself to tell him how the bits fit into a whole. He hated the Thalmor so much, I was afraid he would hate me, too."

A very long pause ensued before he asked, more gently than she would have credited him with. "Who is Ralof?"

Ysmir sighed, watching a female draugr patrol a further corridor. "I almost married him," she disclosed, feeling his arm twitch where her fingers rested lightly over the fabric of his robes, just before his gauntlet. "I really didn't want anything to do with men for so long after…after my last mission, but he…well," she laughed a bit, "He told me quite bluntly that I had the power to turn him to ash, skewer him like a skeever, or send him flying like a giant would if he did anything I didn't like, so there was no reason to be afraid of men anymore." She shrugged, then grinned. "He also pointed out that I once shoved him up against a Word Wall and started kissing him after absorbing a dragon's soul, so I couldn't say I wasn't interested."

Miraak made an irritated _hrumph_-ing sound and she laughed. "Don't be jealous," she teased, elbowing his side. "If you don't do something obnoxious like steal my dragon souls, _you_ might be the one I shove against a Word Wall."

"Incentive indeed," he drawled, actually sounding like he meant it. "You obviously didn't marry him, however. Is that when you decided you'd rather not tie yourself to one person, or did something else happen?"

Ysmir stopped, her face falling, and he regretted the question. "Alduin happened," she finally replied, her violet eyes darkening to a deep wine as she remembered. "When I took the Elder Scroll up to the Throat of the World, he sensed it. I wasn't ready to face him—hadn't known he'd be there. Hadvar was knocked out and I…" she shook her head. "After Alduin tore him to pieces in front of me, I just went berserk. The next thing I knew, Alduin was fleeing to Sovngarde, Hadvar was staring at me like he didn't know who I was, and even Paarthurnax seemed uncertain of me."

Miraak shifted, unsure of what to do, but in the next moment she drew a deep breath, closing her eyes as she released it, and seemed to return to the moment. "I wasn't myself for a long while after that," she admitted, finally looking at him. "Sometimes, I wonder what he would make of the way I live now. I'm a hero and a Thane, I have a slightly sullied reputation with half of Skyrim gossiping that I'm some sort of Dibella worshiper, and now here I am in a caved-in part of the Dragon Cult capital with a Dragon Priest."

"Former Dragon Priest," he reminded her, drawing her onward.

She snorted, "You're a Daedric Prince now; I was choosing the lesser of two damning traits."

"So he was your first love, then?" Miraak surmised unexpectedly.

"I suppose so, yes," Ysmir affirmed. "Dare I ask who yours was?"

The muscles of his arm tensed slightly under her hand, then he shrugged. "Konahrik's daughter."

"Do you need a handkerchief?" she inquired sarcastically.

He smirked, imagining the former Warlord's face if he knew a slip of a half-elf dared to say that his name sounded like a sneeze. "The leader of the Dragon Priests."

Letting out a low whistle, Ysmir glanced up at him, impressed despite herself. "You never could take the easy path, could you?"

"Do you?"

She shook her head as they entered a sizable room with a table centering it, echoing the oval shape of the walls. "I sat there," he pointed to a seat near the further end, two down from the largest chair. "At least, until Konahrik decided I was too ambitious for comfort and started sending me out."

"How did that work for him?" she smirked, guessing what had happened then.

"He realized I was gaining allies through my travels and decided Solstheim was fairly out of the way," he replied, his rumbling laugh reverberating through the room.

"So the Priests could marry?" Ysmir probed enquiringly when they reached the far end of the room and ascended the stairs there.

"No, but they kept mistresses that might as well have been wives," he replied. "They had the same social status, lived in the Priest's quarters, and occasionally bore them children, if the Priests didn't care about having such an obvious weakness." There was a long pause. "If I had met you back then…even aside from your problematic heritage, I never would have let them know of you or Darva. Especially Darva."

"Did Konahrik's daughter reciprocate?" Ysmir ventured, deciding not to delve into the ever-controversial topic of Nordic racism.

"You talked to her about it already," he pointed out.

"No I have—No, oh, you must be joking," she breathed, staring at him. He slanted her an amused look as she managed, "Gormlaith? _Gormlaith_ was the daughter of a Dragon Priest?"

"Why do you think she hated the rule of dragons so much?" Miraak opened the door at the top, secretly pleased to finally be able to tell her all this. Of course, he was keeping much—most of the dirty details, really—out, but he seldom did anything on a whim (anymore, at least), and revealing parts of his past to her was no exception. He knew her and her impulses as no one else ever could, because they lacked the dragon blood, but that wouldn't be enough to hold them together if she decided he was too much of a threat to keep around. No, he needed her to know him as a man, someone capable of both light and darkness. It might be all that tied her to him in what was to follow.

"Do you miss it?" she asked, catching him off guard.

He glanced at her, seeing the rather discerning look in her eyes and realized that she knew that he was holding back, if not precisely why. In this, her own brutal past assisted him, for there was much she might never tell another soul, and would assume he had his secrets as well.

Covering his hesitation by tucking her hand in his arm again (and getting the distinct impression that his mannerly behavior amused her, but this damnable place was bringing out a lot more than just memories), Miraak finally sighed and admitted that yes, there were elements that he missed, from time to time. It would be very helpful if his followers didn't need to worry about secular authority deciding to come at them with an army, for instance. Getting supplies through tribute rather than having to buy things all the time. Not having to tempt a potentially useful personage into summoning him, and just showing up directly.

Actually, he could probably manage that last one, if he spent enough time cultivating a respectable mortal persona. Tucking that notion in the back of his mind to mull over, he glanced down at her, ignoring the prickling dislike the current corridor brought to mind. He'd never visited the personal quarters of the other Priests without dire reason, and he'd only been down this particular hallway twice. It was scant recompense that the draugr here were disinclined to attack him. "Do you?"

"Miss life as a Young One? No thank you!" she seemed appalled he'd even asked, then paused, considering. "I miss Alinor sometimes, though. It was warm, and I could almost always hear and smell the sea," she paused, unsure if she wanted to remember, then intercepted his encouraging expression and smiled wryly. "There was a little grove of wild orange trees my mother and I would sneak off to. We'd play there, sometimes, or she would tell me little tales, sing to me or just sit and eat oranges. She was old enough and considered loyal enough to have some freedoms—she even had a name." Ysmir sighed, a small, sad smile on her face. "In Cyrodiil, I used to steal oranges from the traders that came through there, or even just orange peels, and keep them as long as I could. I like oranges, but it's the memories their scent brought back that I wanted." Pushing the hair off her face, she added softly, "I haven't so much as seen an orange since coming to Skyrim. Too far to transport them."

"I don't know that I've ever had one," he admitted, and she realized they had stopped walking while she talked, and glanced at the door before them. Rather than answer her questioning look, Miraak pushed the door, his hand glowing with magic briefly when it held. The hinges shrieked protest as it opened, a rush of stale air proving it had been sealed tightly. Ysmir felt her lips part slightly in surprise.

Now, finally, she saw the resemblance to Windhelm. The room was perfectly preserved, down to the alchemy reagents on the shelves that crumbled to dust with the slight rush of air when the door opened. Here, the walls had not deteriorated, the floors not sunken with untold years of undead footsteps. Even the bed curtains remained, though they looked as if they might follow the reagents at any moment.

Ysmir shifted in unease, noting how the rug lined up perfectly with the tiled floor. Everything was organized with an almost obsessive observation to detail—the pieces of furniture against the wall evenly spaced, the coverlet on the bed folded so crisply the edges had crumbled away. There were exactly sixteen books on a shelf, even if additional room remained, and in stark contrast with any other piece of Nordic architecture, every pattern was a precise geometric. Even the few curving lines were set out mathematically rather than artistically, bordered by harsh edges as if to keep their whimsy tightly contained.

Silently, as if she might wake some slumbering beast, the Dragonborn entered the room, gazing about with furrowed brow as she took in the ancient bedchamber. Carefully, she opened a wardrobe, unsurprised to see seven sets of robes there, each hung so they took up the same amount of space. The shoes at the bottom were laid out with the same pedantic care.

Miraak ignored the time capsule of the rest of the room, striding to the door at the far end, tiny puffs of gray particles punctuating each staccato footstep. It crumbling to a pile of powdered rust had nothing to do with the effects of time, for it had been a heavy, bolted affair with bars reinforcing the already sturdy iron. Hurrying after him, Ysmir froze at the doorway, immobilized by the sight before her.

"Divines," she finally breathed, sickened, "I haven't seen a room like this since I left Alinor."

Miraak glanced at the array of torture equipment, meticulously placed across two large tables and a set of shelves. An empty table with bronzed cuffs bolted to it was the centerpiece of the room, a massive slab of slightly sloped white marble that shone bright with polish under the layer of dust. Here there were signs of artistry, the swirling grooves designed to keep blood from pooling set in a branching, arching pattern. It took a moment for Ysmir to recognize it from a Healer's text Danica had once shown her as the pathways blood took through the body as it flowed to and from the heart. Her hands shook as she examined the equipment, a little shocked when she could only name perhaps half of it. "Was…was this his job, then? Was this man the torturer of the Priesthood?"

"All the Priests had their vices," Miraak replied, watching her woodenly. "Morokei was raised a slave under the previous owner of the Moonstone Mask, a woman who prided herself for being the greatest mage in the Priesthood. He became her personal assistant and lover sometime in his twenties. When she realized his power and skill were liable to eclipse hers, she tortured him, carved a rune into his skin to keep him from exercising magic, had him castrated and threw him back into the offering pits."

Ysmir stared at him, horrified. "But…how did he become a Priest, then?"

"There used to be an arena in Windhelm where slaves would fight to the death for the glory of the dragons. They believed he was weak from the torture, so they sent him there to be part of the bloodletting at the beginning of the show. Rather than beg for his life or try to escape, Morokei used the dagger they had given him to carve the rune off his body, then destroyed the rest of the bait slaves and gladiators with his magic." He shrugged philosophically. "He became so popular for it they couldn't _not_ make him a Priest."

Eyes roving the tools of pain placed about the room, Ysmir swallowed, feeling slightly ill. "He tortured women who reminded him of her, didn't he? That's why this is in his personal quarters, rather than a prison of some kind. This was his…hobby."

"I take you you've encountered something similar?" he surmised, turning away and examining the only wall in the room not covered with either equipment or restraints. A familiar motif rose from the otherwise flat plane of stone; a man with fire arching from his twin daggers, a pair of royal dead being brought before him.

"Once or twice," she confirmed. "I've never heard of one who was fully sanctioned to do so, though."

"He wasn't, at least not for long," Miraak replied. "Even the Priesthood had limits." She tilted her head, sensing there was more to that particular event than he was telling, but he moved his gaze to the wall, continuing his minute examination. Placing his hands on the relief and sharply twisting the Priest's daggers downward, Miraak stepped back as the wall shifted back, then sideways, revealing a shallow storage area with two score or so different objects in it. "The Mask was his trophy from his former mistress, but he kept something from all the women he deemed his favorites."

Something in the flatness of his voice tugged at her, bringing her over to cast her gaze over the bits of jewelry, tattered remains of cloth, occasional weapon, and, on their own shelf near the top, another Dragons Priest's mask of crumbling leather, a circlet, and an oddly shaped harp. It was this last Miraak reached for, lifting it down gently to blow the dust off it. It proved to be carved from a solid piece of moonstone, complicated knotwork patterns dancing up and down its top and heavy side, the top corner carved with a stunning moth design, many tiny sapphires and emeralds in various shades forming the wings. His face was quiet and sorrowful as he brushed out the remains of ancient strings. "Ceridwen Golden-Harp was a Master Bard from Atmora, the only one to survive the trip to Skyrim. Bards were more than musicians in Atmora, they were spreaders of news good and ill, and the keepers of much lore that could not be found anywhere else."

Examining the instrument, much smaller than the ones in Alinor—able to fit in the player's lap, in fact—she shoved down her irritation at the time they had wasted. "So you want to suck all her knowledge out of it somehow?"

"No," he replied, hands cradling the harp gently, "I could, but it would destroy it."

Ysmir frowned, glancing from the harp to his face. "Who was she to you?"

His slight smile had a wistful quality she couldn't remember seeing before. "I barely remember her. I think she would be horrified by me now, but she would have liked you. She definitely would have liked Darva. They're a lot alike. I was barely older than she is when Morokei took a liking to her."

She flinched, feeling her stomach drop, wide eyes darting from him to the room behind them. "Gods," she breathed, sickened.

Miraak nodded, seeing the understanding in her eyes. Tucking the small harp under one arm, he offered her the other, leading her back on the path to face Morokei.

**.**

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**Happy Holidays, guys! Whatever you celebrate, I hope it's a great one! If you don't celebrate anything, I hope you have a great week. :) I'm extremely tired and on antibiotics right now, soooo if some of this sounds a little loopy, it's because I am. Rommy!muse is very entertained.**

**Been keeping myself occupied to the detriment of any other activity (including food and sleep) with job training. Just to see what I need to work on, I took the test to do more complicated tax returns, and passed on my first try. I would be quite proud if I wasn't so tired. Plans for tomorrow include sleeping in and baking lots and lots of Christmas cookies! Then I get to drive down to Ohio and see my nephew! I mean my family. Of course. Them too.**

**Chi babies are fine. Still fluffy, still dislike any forms of affection that do not involve food, still my adorable little balls of animosity. Turtles are well, as well. Wheezy's arm is healing, and he must be feeling much better because I walked by the tank to see him playing Jaime Lannister to Chomp's Cersei (I was very dismayed. Thank God it's the wrong season for eggs).**

**I hope you like the update! Thank you to all of you who have stuck around through all this! I know my posting has been much slower, so thank you so much for bearing with me! Thank you to those who read and reviewed, and welcome new followers and favorites!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: It makes me feel tired too. I am very thankful for coffee. Considering the small intestine is over six meters long, I think you have enough for both. ;P**

**Wynni: Ysmir and Miraak bring out both the best and worst in each other, including teasing. As for Rommy...we'll get into that later. Owch! I hope he gets better soon, and you guys will be in my prayers this Christmas. **

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**Next time: Miraak vs. Morokei! Cheerleader Ysmir is bad at staying on the sidelines. I'm far too loopy for summaries right now. **


	78. Chapter 78: Glorious

Ysmir stared at the chamber before them, jaw clenched resolutely. Across the room, over a wall a story high, a pair of suspiciously familiar bound spirits poured their magic into maintaining a spherical ward on the platform across from them, imprisoning something. Anger boiled in her at the former Arch-Mage as she watched their essence spin out of them like fibers twisting onto a spindle, taking a bit more of the people they had been with it every moment it continued, until nothing was left but a pair of human-shaped wells to Aetherius, and the purpose they were bound to.

"Well, I suppose we know how the Arch-Mage made it out," Miraak commented, setting the harp safely next to the door.

"Don't sound so impressed," she snapped, glaring at him. "He sacrificed his friends to put that barrier up!"

Miraak nodded grimly, "And in doing so kept a being widely considered to be the most powerful mage of an era trapped in his tomb. Ysmir, no one ever bested Morokei in the arcane. Even I learned sword skills so that I had a chance against him! Your Aren did this as an Apprentice!"

"I would never have left them," she countered fiercely, rounding on him as he drew back slightly at her vehemence. "Even if it meant I held that lich off while they escaped, and perished myself!"

"And most likely been dragged off to his torture room," Miraak replied, growling at the thought.

"I'd like to see him try," she growled right back, eyes starting to glow slightly as wisps of flames danced along the delicate strands of her hair.

He sighed, then examined the situation. "If you're so worried about them, go release them. I'll handle Morokei."

"You are the one he wronged," she conceded, visibly getting ahold of herself and starting down the steps. "Just don't play too long, we still have to take out the Eye and Ancano before we can talk to Augie. Delphine might not hurt Darva, but the woman doesn't have a maternal bone in her body."

He put an arm out, halting her when she would have stepped under the arch. After that point, the bound Priest would be able to sense them. "Let me get his attention, then you free the spirits. Do not be surprised if they attack you, but try not to draw attention to yourself. There will be a few seconds after their deaths that the barrier will remain. Use that time to make sure you're nowhere near where they were when he looks for them." She nodded, and he watched her vanish into the shadows before he stepped out where his old foe could see him.

_"Miraak? Lost hi ahst laat rund ahkrin wah luft hin oblaan?"_ the elder Priest taunted.

Ysmir cursed silently as her magicka was drained away, drawing her dagger and making her careful way up the stairs, mindful of the loose stones raining down as the temple shook.

_"Ni dahsul, wuth jul,"_ he replied, grinning a little at the snarl Morokei let out to be called "old." Examining the husk of a man held inside the ward, he laughed. "You look terrible." Ysmir was probably going to berate him for not speaking a language she could understand, but there were some things Morokei might try to fling in his face that he definitely didn't want her hearing about. Perhaps he shouldn't tease her so much about not knowing Dovahzul.

"You…you look the same," the Priest faltered. _"How?"_ he snarled, enraged.

Miraak paced carefully forward, circling the other Priest as Ysmir snuck up behind the female spirit and slit her throat. Morokei was so distracted he didn't even notice when half the input ceased. "I told you all Alduin would never bring you back to your former glory. Immortality is reserved for gods and dragons, Morokei."

The undead Priest let out a rasping chuckle. "What arrogance. After all this time, you still claim to be a dragon?"

Seeing Ysmir about to take out the second spirit, Miraak smirked, ripping off his mask to let the other Priest see his draconic features. Much to his satisfaction, Morokei visibly recoiled, his free hand coming up in an involuntary warding gesture. "Oh, I always was a dragon," he purred, "but now I can claim the other as well. _Mul Qah Diiv!"_

"Blasphemer!" Morokei raged, goaded by the form of the ethereal armor into lashing out at him with the Staff. The barrier broke as he thrust it forward, the remnants of the entrapment swirling into the globed end of the Staff.

Miraak jumped back in shock, grimacing as Aedric energy washed over him, grating against his essence and in all feeling distinctly painful. He hadn't thought of this—that the Aedric staff might be immiscible to his nature, to his very flesh. It tugged at the fabric of his power, unraveling ends before he snapped them back together with an angry burst of will. Morokei laughed as he staggered, calling up a Lightning cloak and setting a Storm Atronach on him. "Repent, Miraak! Surrender your foolish notions and rejoice, for your magic is what shall free me from this forgotten city!"

The Daedra slanted an irate glare at the Atronach, which paused, hovering nervously. Miraak solved the poor thing's dilemma by banishing it back to Oblivion. "I think you're mistaking my intent here." Miraak replied with deceptive calm, drawing his sword. "It's been four ages of man since you last saw me; neither the rest of the Priesthood nor your totemic deities are going to protect you from me this time."

Morokei scoffed, "Did you forget our last duel, boy? Your magic was no match for mine; your sword dulled itself upon my Ebon-flesh."

"Good," he countered grimly. "I want this to last a while."

"Fool!" the Priest shrieked, lashing out with chain lightning that arched around his opponent. "You will never defeat m—" he lurched, glancing down where Miraak's sword had lashed out and cut into his side, through armor and mage armor both. That was impossible; he was still so far away…Miraak whirled his arm, bringing the elongated blade back around like a whip to tear into the Priest's other arm. Morokei gasped in a surprised breath through desiccated lungs. A ward leapt up between them, the Priest glowing gold with Healing behind the distortion.

Miraak's voice lowered dangerously, "Are you starting to comprehend, Morokei?"

With an inhuman shriek, the draugr floated back, fleeing across the walkway to put space between him and the opponent he thought he had measured, trying to cover his movements with another barrage of lightning. It only arched around Miraak as the younger Priest strode toward him. Desperate, he used the Staff once more, pausing when this, as nothing else, had an effect. Miraak shouted, staggering backwards into the wall, and the Priest shot a ball of lightning at him. This time, it sent him skidding several feet across the stones, though he kept his feet. Morokei's dead eyes looked up at the Staff with dawning comprehension. "I see, so your newfound strength comes fully from that Daedric fiend, Herma-Mora." Pointing the Staff at Miraak again, he replenished his own magicka with Miraak's, mummified flesh crinkling as it stretched into a smile under his mask.

"You have changed, Miraak. The first time we faced each other, you insisted on using only your own power. Now you're borrowing Daedric magic, stealing my things, and apparently playing nice with a partner. Where is your accomplice that let me out of my prison? I need to thank him properly." Raising his free arm, green light arched through the chamber, pulling every living thing toward him. Even Miraak slid forward until he almost fell from the platform, and a slaughterfish was dragged completely out of the water. The Priest hadn't even known it was there.

What really took Morokei aback was the short mixed-blooded wench that practically fell on him from above to sprawl, stunned, at his feet for a moment as he stared at her. "A woman? Miraak, you shouldn't have." Deciding to let the upstart recover for a moment before he crushed him, the older Priest reached down and pulled the little rogue to him. He'd punish her properly for her immediate cry of disgust later, he decided, feeling a rush of magicka fill him from where their flesh touched. It seemed she was a mage; even better. "She's adorable, Miraak. Wherever did you find her? Is she from one of those half-elf Reach tribes like your Housecarl's whore? Or is her mongrelism more recent than that?" He pulled her against him as the man rose to his feet, shaking his arms as if casting off water.

Shaking the girl to make her cry out, he glanced down when she merely produced and aggravated huff. "Could you two _please _stop spouting off in the dragon tongue and speak common like the rest of us?"

Miraak sighed, looking at her in exasperation. "Ysmir, why are you just standing there?"

The woman shrugged as Morokei felt another shock of outrage at the name the chit had stolen, "I didn't figure I'd get another chance to ask," she explained, then glanced up at Morokei, "No one touches me without my permission," she informed him coldly. Her slightly tilted eyes start to glow for an instant before she burst into flame.

Yowling, he lurched back toward the stairs, draining at her magic only to discover there was nothing more there to take. "How?" he demanded in her language, eyes narrowing. "A scroll? Is _he_ doing it?"

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the pillar behind her and tilting her head as she studied him, apparently neither frightened nor interested in fighting. "You know, Miraak, I think the Nords have a point. I mean, here he is, in the middle of battle for Divine's sake, and he wants to know the particulars of mix-blooded racial abilities." She rolled her eyes. The chit actually _rolled her eyes_ at him! _Him!_

Miraak was laughing as he strode toward them, blasphemous mage armor shimmering like the aurora. "I don't think he likes your name, Ysmir," he told her in the common tongue, earning a swat in the side from her. He didn't appear to mind.

Morokei paused as he watched, confused. This was different. This wasn't the Miraak he knew. That Miraak had been full of rashness, of anger; easy for him to goad into making ill-founded decisions and acts of recklessness. There was an ease about him the other Priest had never seen before, some assurance or acceptance beyond that of the arrogance of power. Looking from the impiously named elven witch back to the Atmoran, he finally sputtered, "You finally get the nerve to face me head on, and you _brought your Troth-Plighted?"_ Was the man insane? Was he mocking him? Dangling his weaknesses before his enemy as if to declare Morokei couldn't even take out a _woman?_

Miraak glanced at him and smirked as if he knew exactly what he had been thinking, lifting the woman's hand and kissing the back of it while she shivered, eyes shining with more than just fire as she raised her eyebrow. "Troth-plighted," he said, making the other eyebrow shoot up, "why don't you show him why they named you Dragon of the North?" His mouthed the Words of Dragon Aspect against her skin, and she sighed in resignation.

"If I need this later, I'm going to beat you," she promised. _"Mul Qah Diiv!"_

Morokei felt numb with shock as flaming draconic armor coalesced around her slender form, encasing arms and torso in hardened spectral scales, horns rising from her head and, most interesting of all, the suggestion of ghostly wings flickering out from the flame cloak. Miraak seemed to stiffen, staring at her as her eyes widened, the gauntlet parts of both their Aspects intertwining where their hands were still clasped, colored light playing about them like aurora-born wisps.

"Oh," she said softly, her lips parting in surprise. Miraak appeared to be similarly tongue-tied.

"You make a striking pair of heretics," he ground out, snapping both their gazes to him as if they had forgotten he was even there. "I'll destroy you both together!"

Miraak stepped in front of his woman as Morokei sent arch after arch of thunderbolts at them, enough to surely dissolve them into dust, and watching with distinct satisfaction as the orange glow of their fiery armor vanished under the unrelenting white sparks of his lightning. Abruptly, a hole opened in reality itself, the size of a fist at first but quickly widening to swallow his spell.

He threw his hand down, ceasing the spell and lifting the Staff of Magnus when Miraak stepped right through the portal, dissolving it with an inaudible pop and bringing his sword up all at once. _"Wuld!"_ The Staff slipped from skeletal fingers as Morokei looked down at the strange, Daedric sword that skewered through him, his Ebon-flesh vanishing as he felt himself starting to crumble to dust. Disbelieving, he looked up into the half-familiar face, the human side full of hate, the dragon side in a terrifying snarl of rage, the eyes of each portals into the Void itself. _"Daar los fah dii monah, hi nivahriin dahstin,"_ he snarled quietly, jerking the sword forward another inch into the Priest's shrunken heart.

It was all that was needed. Morokei, once Glorious, dissolved into dust to join the filth on the floor.

.

* * *

.

Ysmir watched as the Priest collapsed in on himself, raining down onto the walkway. His mask hit the stone and rolled with a clatter, bouncing down the stairs into the darkness of the tomb, ignored. Miraak stared down at his sword, panting, for what felt like minutes as her heart pounded in her chest. What was that? Her hand still tingled from where his Dragon Aspect had passed through her skin, feeling like the height of absorbing a dragon's soul. Her own spirit was singing with feeling, filling her head with rushing wind and music, similar to and very, very different than when she found a new Word, or claimed a soul. It had been so long since she needed to kill one of the _dov _that she had almost forgotten how that rush of sensation felt.

Now she ached for it.

Miraak whirled, throwing his sword aside as his Aspect seemed to flare a brilliant orange. She met him halfway before he pushed her back against the pillar, every nerve ending singing where the armor passed through her skin. Cold stone slid along her back as he lifted her, her clothing quite literally vanishing and she didn't care at all, lost in his embrace and the sensation of his _dovahsil_ sliding against hers, inside of her but not absorbed by her, and gods, but if she had known this would happen she would have used that Shout _ages_ ago.

His lips slid to her neck, teeth raking along her skin as he pulled her head back by her hair to bare her neck to him, other hand teasing her needlessly even as his gauntlet vanished mid-stroke. She snarled, raking her nails down his collarbone, pulling open those damnable robes as she went. Dibella, but why were his raiments so complicated? She must have mumbled something to that effect out loud, for he lifted her a bit higher, and something metallic went flying away from them, his robes falling open before he pinned her more firmly against the pillar, wasting no time sheathing himself inside her. Ysmir moaned, burying her face into his shoulder and holding him as close as could physically be managed, nails ripping his robes as both his body and his Aspect moved within her, and she lost sense of everything else.

.

* * *

.

_"Zu'u fen ni vos hi dir,"_ Miraak muttered against her damp skin. He sat against the pillar with her still straddling his lap, though how they had gotten in that position she couldn't recall. It was the first either of them had spoken in several minutes, just remaining together as they came back down, Dragon Aspects safely faded, though she was getting a bit chilled without her flame cloak.

"What?" she croaked, sitting up a little and wincing, shooting off a quick burst of Healing.

He smiled, lifting a hand to brush against her cheek. "We should get going," he said, though she wasn't entirely sure that he was clarifying what he had just said or not.

Ysmir licked her lips nervously, aware that he watched the movement. His eyes held a softness to them she had never seen before, or perhaps hadn't allowed herself to see. She'd really gotten herself into it this time, hadn't she? And yet…shoving the thought away, she shivered a little in the cool air. "Miraak…where are my clothes?"

He chuckled a bit, leaning up to kiss her lightly. "I can purify the pool water if you want to rinse off before I bring them back," he offered.

"Probably a good idea," she agreed, flushing a bit. Rising off him clumsily (which only made him smirk as he helped her, prompting her to call him insufferable, which he perversely also seemed to enjoy), she summoned her flame cloak again to warm the water, the heat resistance that came with it preventing her from being cooked as it boiled the water around her. As ever, Miraak seemed to not quite want to stop touching her, which was pleasant but very distracting and solidified the idea in her mind that he was a cuddler, no matter what he claimed. Finally pulling her clothing back on, she paused, eyes widening as she regarded her bare left ankle. "Miraak?" she called, keeping a slight edge of hysteria out of her voice with effort.

"What?" he replied from where he had been fetching his mother's harp from the doorway after she'd shooed him away with a laugh.

"Where is my anklet?" she demanded.

He paused, looking as if he were concentrating on something, then the tear-shaped blue stone fell into his upturned palm out of thin air. "Sometimes the Seekers carry off enchanted things," he explained, examining it curiously. Never having been much of an enchanter of anything but battle enhancements, he couldn't read the runes magically etched into it.

"Like infertility charms," she groused, grabbing the thin leather thong it was on and wrapping it securely around her ankle before pulling her woolen socks over it.

Miraak had paled, "What?"

"Never remove that again," she commanded firmly, digging in her knapsack. "Luckily I've carried backup potions with me ever since you cracked my last one."

He gritted his teeth. "You might have warned me."

"I was a little caught in the moment," she replied with as much dignity as she could muster, downing the potion and pulling on her boots. Pausing, she glared up at him suspiciously, "What's a 'troth-plighted?'"

He gave her a sly look. "It's an old Nordic term for betrothed. It was also adopted by the Priesthood as the title for a lover widely regarded as their spouse."

The glare intensified. "We are not married."

"Neither were they," he pointed out irrepressively.

The look she gave him could have blistered paint, but somehow she ended up smiling. Perfect, now she couldn't even seem to stay mad at him. Brushing her hands off on her trousers, she declared, "Now, let's not waste any more time."

"I might argue with your choice of words," he said, drawing her to her feet, "but I suppose you are right."

"Of course I am. Let's go be heroes," she smirked at him. "Should be a nice change of pace for you."

"You're hilarious," he stated sardonically, shoving the Staff of Magnus at her and opening a portal to Apocrypha.

"I know," she replied with a smile, stepping through.

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* * *

.

After what felt like hours, the moaning and other scandalous noises echoing back through the barred door finally stopped. Estormo, the great Thalmor mage, banished the flush from his cheeks and readied his lightning spell as he faced the door. Now that they were done…doing _whatever_ (and in a tomb. A tomb! Did these barbarians have no scruples?), the mage Ancano had told him to expect should be walking through that door to face him. This was his moment to prove himself, and he was ready!

Any moment now.

Any time.

Very soon, he was sure.

…Right?

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**Happy 2016 everyone. :) My year has been...interesting so far. Had my first day of work on Monday-and my car wouldn't start. It was eleven degrees here, so no wonder. My boss was very understanding and just told me to come in when I could, which wasn't until two and a half hours later. Most of that time was spent on the phone with roadside assistance.**

**I got to spend Christmas with my sister and new little nephew! He's such a happy baby (quite a contrast from Thanksgiving when he wouldn't quit crying). Dez and I sang in harmony for him and he just smiled all the way through. Then for shits and giggles I started yodeling (yes I can actually, legit yodel) for him and he stared at me with this wide-eyed wtf expression. It was so funny. My sister's dog apparently hasn't been getting enough attention since Cian was born, though. I patted her on the head twice and she climbed right into my lap and refused to move.**

**Chins are doing well. My hopefully future mom-in-law got me some fuzzy white boot-slippers, and I think they mistake them for another chinchilla, because they will come over and cuddle with my foot for a few minutes, and they only ever cuddle with each other.**

**Little turtle Wheezy is doing well. It looks like his leg is much better, though I'm not sure he'll ever be able to use it as well as he once did.**

**WE REACHED 100 FOLLOWERS, GUYS! Thank you to everyone who followed or favorited this! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! **

**OedonWrithe: You know, I didn't actually see your review until today? For some reason it was on my count, but didn't show up until I clicked on individual chapter reviews. It made me happy to see. :) I really enjoyed giving the kids little quirks like that. One of the reasons Ysmir adopted those particular children is that she thought they were special somehow, so this is just showing that potential blossoming. That...is a rather good idea for getting rid of Delphine. XD Let her deal with Nelkir's brattiness for a bit! I hope the fight with Morokei was to your liking. Balgruuf will be very proud, though he will hide it until after his Stern Dad you-could-have-been-killed speech. You have a snake named Snake? :D Olive sounds adorable! Geckos are so cute. I almost always go and watch them when I'm in the pet store. Watch out for that last one, though, little brothers can be very destructive when bored!**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: ...Speaking of needing brain bleach.**

**afeleon276: I've been known to write a drabble or two after interesting dreams. I tend toward nightmares, though, so I try my best to forget them most of the time. Of course Miraak still loves his momma-that was the only peaceful, completely happy time of his entire existence. Even his time with the Priestesses of Kyne later was tinged by the sorrow of her absence. **

**traditional-fire: I'm glad you love it! Your Miraak stories are partially what inspired me to write him in here in the first place, so that makes me happy. :)**

**Wynni: I think it's safe to say that Morokei was a dick before all that happened to him. He was just a powerful, determined dick. Ysmir gets wanting to take someone out personally, and Morokei never actually did anything to her. She was content to watch Miraak tie up the loose ends of that part of his life. I hope your hubby is doing better.**

**.**

**Next time maybe: After WAY to long away, the Dragonborn finally returns to Winterhold-though Miraak pauses to put on something that doesn't scream "Daedric Prince" quite so much. Also, probably, Delphine finally tells Darva why they're digging up old bones in a cave. **


	79. Chapter 79: The Barrier

Ysmir yawned and stuck her hand into the font of stamina next to her, wanting to nap if she had to wait, but definitely not wanting to do so in Apocrypha. At least this was mere sleepiness, and nothing like the bone-deep weariness that had suffused her after Shalidor's Maze. Pausing mid-yawn, she squinted at the font through the gloom. It was difficult to tell, but the form holding the glowing green orb of mist seemed slightly more draconic than lurker-ish. Dismissing the thought with a little mental shrug—no one was going to argue with Apocrypha looking a little less like a Sload decorated it—she leaned over a bit as if she could check her lover's progress with just a little more effort. "Are you done yet?" she groused, hefting the Staff of Magnus higher on her shoulder.

Miraak gritted his teeth, fumbling with a particularly tricky buckle. "I've watched you stalk a Seeker for over half an hour for no reason I could see, and yet now you have no patience," he muttered.

She frowned, head whipping towards the walled off little pocket chamber where he had obscured himself, "What?"

"Nothing," he replied, walking out into the wider area and having the satisfaction of seeing her expression of annoyance melt into complete surprise.

"Oh," she said softly. "I didn't know you had armor…your face!"

He grinned smugly, the expression seeming soft and natural without his shifting scales, and shrugged the set on a little more comfortably. It had been a long, long time since he had worn armor. "The Skaal gifted it to me when I first came to rule over Solstheim. I do not wish to be recognized by the mages in the College, but many of them would not be fooled if I arrived cloaked in illusions. Hence, the only ones being on my…less mortal features."

She had risen to examine him, fascinated. Miraak in his robes was one thing, but she'd found over the last decade that she really appreciated how men looked in heavy armor. It wasn't something she shared with anyone but some of her female friends, though, and even then usually after a few too many drinks. "It looks a bit like Nordic armor, but that's bulkier and the motif is usually a bear…" Pausing behind him, she smothered a grin at her initial reaction, and decided against complimenting how well it fit him. He was conceited enough already.

"The Bear was the representation of Stuhn—you'd call him Stendaar. I was a Dragon Priest, not a Bear Priest. Unlike their former Dragon Priest, though, I was a warrior, so they changed the traditional look when they gifted me this." He looked down at the dragon-themed details of the armor reminiscently. "I was planning to wear it into battle when I took the others down. It is good to have occasion to wear it again."

Ysmir looked amused. "So you're going to pretend to be a human now? Can you really fool a College full of mages?"

"We shall see," he replied, opening a portal to the road into Winterhold. "I've been thinking of making a mortal persona for some time. It would be easier to see you if I need not worry that you might become associated with a Daedra."

Opening her mouth to retort, Ysmir paused, then looked thoughtful. "You're right."

"I usually am. Nice for you to finally admit it."

"Ass," she retorted, whirling the snow sabercat cloak he handed her around her shoulders. She wasn't even going to ask where he got this stuff, or how it had lasted in Apocrypha.

"Yes, I saw you admiring it," he replied with a devilish smile. It vanished as soon as they stepped through the portal and into the biting wind that whipped the snow and ice around them.

"Gods," Ysmir breathed, all humor forgotten as she caught sight of Winterhold. The town looked tiny and extremely vulnerable next to the massive sphere of the barrier. "It's so far away! Why didn't you bring us closer?" she raged at him, holding the cloak tightly as it whipped around as easily as fine linen.

"This is as close as I can get," he told her solemnly, steadying her as a strong gust nearly blew her off her feet. She tried to start for the town only be blown right back against the bulwark of his chest, her expression one of undisguised horror. Miraak glanced into the wind, and the snow abruptly split around them like water around a rock. "I don't think even Clear Skies would dent this for long."

"Do you think Odahviing could fly in this?" she asked, eyes fixed on the Hold capitol.

"I think it would be dangerous for him to even attempt it," he admitted. "I could hold a shield around him, but only if I knew where he was coming from."

"Right then; get a shield ready," she whirled and planted her feet, startling him by staring not at the sky, but the ground. _"Dur Neh Viir!"_

Miraak stared down at her in utter shock as a tunnel of purple light appeared on the ground, reaching down beyond the veils of Oblivion into the Soul Cairn. It warped, coalescing into a ragged, decaying dragon that shrieked in pain at the icy assault of the weather for a moment before he belatedly raised a sphere of calm around them, the snow stopping and sliding to either side, less like a rock in a stream than as if it simply hit a glass wall. He'd heard that a few dragons had been trapped in other realms than Apocrypha, but this was the first he'd seen of it. Oh, but he was an ugly sight; puss oozing out from cracked scales and torn membranes, bits of slimy flesh clinging resolutely to bones that would be visible but for the crumbling armor of his scales. The flies that had been brought with him scattered like fallen leaves, killed in moments by the cold. He couldn't imagine how many had actually been brought with the thing for there to still be some after that first blast of wind.

The undead dragon glanced up at the storm beyond the bubble, then turned his head to examine Winterhold before facing Ysmir. "It is a strange place you have brought me to, _Qahnaarin."_

Ysmir shrugged, "You've flown through worse. I have a bit of a favor to ask, if you would listen."

_"Do rahlo, Qahnaarin_. It is no trouble to listen," the _dovah_ replied, interest caught.

"We need to get to that town quickly, but it would take us a long time on foot," she explained.

Durnehviir drew back slightly. "I am not a steed, _Qahnaarin,_ but I would not mind carrying you this once. However, I am afraid I cannot."

She looked surprised. "Why not?"

"Look at him, Ysmir; he's falling apart," Miraak sighed, taking in the decayed state of the dragon. Durnehviir was frankly lucky he had gotten the barrier up so quickly, else the flying ice would likely have shredded what little flesh still clung grimly to his bones.

Durnehviir glanced at him sharply at the sound of his voice. "You are Miraak. I recall you, and your betrayal. _Vorey do dii eylok kiibok hi._ Tell me, have my brothers that followed you to Oblivion met the same fate as me? Are they trapped there as well; crumbling, fading shades of themselves?"

He held the dragon's gaze for a long moment before Durnehviir bowed his head. "I see. You took their strength for your own. I warned Alduin that you could do this: He refused to heed my words."

Miraak's eyes narrowed as Ysmir glanced from one to the other. "Could this wait, please?"

The Daedra looked down at her, obviously thinking furiously, then glanced toward the town. After a moment, he heaved a reluctant sigh. "Do you have any dragon scales on you?"

She blinked, then dug into her bag. "I think so." She had been planning on selling them to re-outfit the house, but Lucan ran out of septims. Handing them to Miraak, she watched curiously as he examined them minutely, turning them over in his hands as if he could see the very structure of their being. For a long moment, they remained as they were, then pulsed with dark light before dissolving into an oily mist. It oozed out of Miraak's hands, slithering along the ground toward the dragon more like a serpent's shadow than a wisp of vapor, then spread, blanketing him in fog.

Durnehviir stopped oozing, ink blotting the rents in his flesh and mending his scales, stretching web-like between the tattered flaps of skin on his wings. Miraak examined him critically through all this, watching as the dragon-scale ink pieced the undead dragon back together like patches in a quilt. "I thought I recognized you," he said coldly.

The dragon laughed. "Indeed. You have picked a strong mate, _Qahnaarin._ I trust you gave him a good fight before submitting to his advances."

Despite herself, Ysmir smirked. "Don't worry, Durnehviir; I had him on his back before he had me on mine."

Miraak glared at her while the dragon roared with laughter, glancing back over his ebony-encased body. "Now I believe I am sufficiently armored against this magic storm. Have a care, _Qahnaarin," _he added, sobering abruptly, "this is magic that rips at the very fabric of this world. _Zu'u nis bovit rinik lov;_ I can only get you so close."

"Well if we keep talking then we might as well walk there," she replied with irritability born of anxiety, heaving herself onto the dragon's neck. Durnehviir turned his head to watch Miraak climb aboard, apparently having some sort of staring contest. "All right; let's fly," she prompted before that got out of hand.

The dragon launched himself into the air with more agility than she recalled observing in him before, the shield staying centered around them. Miraak sat stiffly behind her, one arm around her waist. "I thought Odahviing was your only dragon ally," he groused, breath warm against her ear.

She glanced down, watching an unfortunate bear being tossed about by the wind as easily as a linen wrap. "What gave you that idea?"

He shook his head, giving up, and moved his focus toward Winterhold. The Aedric magic arching through the air felt almost abrasive, getting worse the closer they grew. By the time Durnehviir landed within running distance of the town, he was battered in all senses, arcane and otherwise. The shield crumbled just as the dragon began to vanish back to the Cairn, making Ysmir glance at him worriedly. Miraak shook his head, grimacing. His teeth ached, and the air hung heavy with the stench of ozone, reacquainting him with the concept of nausea. The barrier screeched in both his ears and mind. He wondered how Ysmir bore it, though a glance at her proved her face just as drawn as his.

"I don't know how much good it will do," Ysmir stated, staring at the barrier and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "but I think we should try Clear Skies. It might at least give us a bit of a reprieve to open up the barrier."

"Agreed," he replied, watching the wind instantly reclaim the red strands. "I'll take south."

She nodded, faced north, and squeezed his hand thrice. On the third time, they both unleashed their _thu'um_. The air shivered under the thunder of their Voices, and the curtains of snow withdrew, the sky roiling ominously just outside the range of the Shout; wolves waiting for the fire to die down before rushing the camp.

"Ysmir! You're back!"

A High Elf darted out the door of the inn where a score of mages milled uncertainly, staring uneasily at the sky and positively brimming with agitation. "Jarl Korir has ordered everyone to abandon the city. Most of the residents left yesterday morning under Stormcloak guard. He's threatened us all with treason if the city falls!" the woman informed them urgently.

"Bloody idiot," Ysmir grumbled, hefting the Staff a bit as she pulled her cloak tighter.

"Best get this over with then," Miraak advised, wincing as the wailing of the barrier hit a particularly high note. Rubbing at his ear was futile; he did it anyway.

The elf was giving him a keen glance. "The more sensitive of the mages are complaining that the barrier is getting worse, even though it hasn't moved outward since yesterday, and stopped spitting out Anomalies the day before that."

Miraak paused, reading her eyes for a moment. "You are not unaffected yourself," he ground out, surprising her. Well into her fifth century, she was probably the strongest mage here, simply in experience alone. He'd have to keep a watch on her thoughts to ensure she remained under the illusion that he was merely a human. "Ysmir, kindly go pop that thing so we can all have some peace," he suggested irritably.

"Gladly," she muttered, barely audible over the wind. "Anything to stop that screeching."

Surprised pride flickered in the Altmer as she realized her former pupil was just as affected. Miraak decided he liked her and took note; she might be useful later on.

Striding down the road, Ysmir halted about a dozen steps from the barrier, just examining it for a moment before lifting the Staff. By now, the rest of the mages had come out to see what was going on, and they watched her with thinly veiled desperation. A balding Imperial in Adept-level Alteration robes shivered slightly, tucking his hands in his armpits and looking Miraak over doubtfully. "Gods, but you two better have something good up your sleeves. I've got nothing left."

One man in the subtly embroidered blue robes of the Synod gave him a sharp look, then glanced at Ysmir and sighed morosely, "We're all going to die," he muttered, readying a summoning spell.

The Staff came to life with electric tendrils that shot out toward the barrier like silk threads to an iron nail, lighting that portion of the opaque wall with a misty blue glow. About a third of the mages flinched in pain as the barrier shrieked in protest, spinning rapidly around the wound. Ysmir gritted her teeth, slowly walking towards it.

"What is she doing?" a woman asked petulantly.

"Hush," the Altmer told her before Miraak could give her the rude response her tone warranted. "She knows what she's doing." Amber eyes flickered over to him with a bit of uncertainty she dared not show the others. "Right?"

Miraak nodded soberly. "I've yet to meet anyone better in a crisis," he told her with complete honesty. "She'll break through."

The whirling wall of magic flared again as Ysmir reached it, then Staff hit barrier with a blinding surge of blue light. Miraak felt as if his corneas burned, and wasn't the only one casting a Healing spell afterwards, though in his case it was more comfort than necessity. Blinking spots from his vision, he looked up to see Ysmir leaning slightly against the Staff, looking at them impatiently. "I don't know how long that will stay down," she warned, hefting the Staff and starting up the stairs to the causeway. Miraak started after her immediately, followed a moment later by the High Elf and an elderly Nord he hadn't taken note of. Ysmir didn't wait, rushing along the walkway with near-reckless speed.

She reached the end of the causeway just as the doors to the Hall of Elements burst open and a flood of frightened apprentices streamed out.

"He's in there!" a pretty Altmer cried, pointing back toward the Hall. Of all of them, she looked the most distraught, with red, puffy eyes and nails bitten down to the quick. The child was surprisingly young—Ysmir actually couldn't remember the last time she'd seen an Altmer that youthful.

"Not for long," Ysmir assured her, patting the poor thing on the arm as she passed. "Don't worry; I'll take care of it."

"Ysmir!"

She turned, relief coursing through her as Brelyna caught her in an impulsive hug before letting her go abruptly, embarrassed at her bold actions. Ysmir smiled reassuringly at her, by now long used to Dunmer and their reticence at blatant displays of affection. "I'm glad you're alright, Brelyna," she told her.

The Dunmer's eyes flashed with ire, "I'll be better once we've stopped Ancano," she stated, and that did surprise Ysmir.

"You want to help?"

Brelyna nodded shortly. "That man has caused enough pain for this lifetime, even by elven standards," she said, looking a bit nervous but still resolved.

Grinning gamely, the Dragonborn told her, "Glad to have you with us."

"For someone so eager, you spend a lot of time talking," Miraak interjected as the rest caught up. There were quite a few faces she didn't recognize, including one or two whose robes seemed to indicate they were visiting from the Synod. Perfect, she thought sarcastically.

Ysmir made a haughty sound and looked away. "My backup wasn't keeping up with me," she countered.

Miraak crossed his arms and glared at her. "That might have had something to do with you taking off across a crumbling bridge at a breakneck pace. I had to save that bald Breton man from falling to his death. You can thank me any time."

Brelyna looked at him curiously. "You're a mage?" she asked doubtfully, eyeing his armor.

"He has a worse ego than J'zargo, but the skills to back it up," Ysmir assured her before Miraak could take offense. Honestly, he was starting to regret not wearing robes of some kind, even if his Dragon Priest raiment was inadvisable.

"I've never seen a Telekinesis spell strong enough to catch a full-grown human mid-fall!" Faralda enthused, eyes shining. Ysmir sighed, hoping the Dragon Priest didn't let the admiration go to his head. The elf sighed then, expression turning rueful, "It's a shame about that Synod mage, though."

Ysmir glanced suspiciously at Miraak, who gave her a bland look. "Why? What happened to the Synod mage?"

"About time you got here!" Urag told her gruffly as he came up to them. "Now get in there and save my books."

Miraak raised an eyebrow at that as Ysmir nodded, turning to take in those who had chosen to accompany her. "From what we saw, we may be facing Anomalies as well as Ancano's magic," she told them, pitching her voice to carry. "From what I remember, he knows a few Conjuration spells, and there is no such thing as a weak Thalmor at his rank, so his Destruction abilities could potentially be as high as Faralda's. We won't know until we get in there. Tolfdir, take the Staff and use it on the Eye; keep draining it of magic as long as you can so it can't fuel the barrier. We can only hope that will be enough. Everyone else, keep the summons and Anomalies off him, and whatever you do don't let Ancano interact with the Eye once we've peeled him off."

"How do you know that will work?" one of the Synod mages shouted fearfully, glaring at her like he suspected she was to blame. Miraak made a note of him for later: He still had a few cages hanging around his Temple.

"My colleague and I talked it over on the way back from Labyrinthian after seeing the powers of the Staff in action," she informed him calmly, letting the man off far easier than Miraak would have. "We believe this to be the best course of action."

"He's not even wearing mage robes!" the man yelled, pointing at Miraak accusingly.

Miraak raised a single hand, closing it into a fist as the man tried to continue speaking, only to find himself Silenced. "If you don't have something useful to contribute, keep your mouth shut," he growled. Turning, he gave Ysmir a polite little bow, waving a hand courteously as she gave him a disapproving look. "After you, Dragonborn," he said, silencing the last of the mutters with those words. She shook her head in resignation, handed the Staff to Tolfdir, and headed into the Hall of Elements. Time to put an end to this.

.

* * *

.

Darva glanced up from the book Jori was helping her read as Meanie Delphine came up the path, stopping to argue a moment with Mister Esbern before walking over to her. The girl scrambled to her feet, clutching the book in front of her like a shield. Her eyes were wide, but she stuck her chin out belligerently. "I don't want to go with you," she told the Grand Mistress.

For a bare moment Delphine looked irritated, but she hid it behind a smile that even Darva could tell was false as wooden teeth. "No absorbing souls today," the woman assured her, and the girl relaxed a bit. Meanie Delphine's lectures were usually scary (and horribly boring when they weren't), but they were much, much better than having a dragon shoved into her head to be killed.

The woman's next words filled her with new foreboding. "We're finally ready."

Darva glanced from Mister Esbern to Meanie Delphine as the old man protested. "Ready for what, Delphine? What are you plotting?"

Gracing him with a frosty look, Delphine bent and lifted Darva into her arms. She liked carrying her around for some reason, though perhaps it was because Darva liked to dig in her heels when the woman tried to lead her anywhere. Once securely held, she unlocked the manacle. "You should know better, Esbern; I'm simply planning a new attack on a dragon."

"By digging up another's corpse?" he demanded, at his wit's end with his colleague. "Those skeletons are ancient, Delphine. They won't yield up a soul to her."

"She's not taking a soul this time," Delphine finally condescended to tell him, picking her way carefully down the path.

"Then what in tarnation are you expecting to learn here?" he asked, huffing a little as he hurried after her, cane sliding in the soft earth. Jori caught his arm as he began to slip.

Darva's heart beat like the wings of a little bird in her chest, fluttering around to escape the cage of her ribs. The set, determined look in Delphine's eyes scared her, filling her with premonition. "If I'm not eating its soul," she asked hesitantly, gaining the Grand Mistress's attention, "what do you want me to do?"

There was a long moment where she thought the woman wasn't going to answer her, but finally the Breton seemed to decide what to say. "This dragon is useless to me dead," she announced. "I need you to bring it back."

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**Dun dun DUN!**

**Hi, guys. I'm actually a little slap happy right now I'm so tired, so I apologize in advance if this rambles a bit. Tomorrow is my first day off since last week, and I get to spend most of it applying for healthcare and arguing with my student loans. I don't know when my next day off is. -_- I don't mind working, but I'd like to have a little balance. Hopefully that will come after the next few crazy weeks, but I don't anticipate having time for anything in the month of February. This is doubly unfortunate, since a) Valentines Day and b) Deadpool. I was hoping to go see it for Valentine's, but instead both my boyfriend and I will be working until we fall on our faces.**

**Made tortellini soup tonight. I've never made it before and I wanted to share.**

**Chins are chins. They decided all the wooden chew toys I have provided them are unsatisfactory and started steadily working their way through one of the platforms in their cage. It's also where they like to sleep, so I don't know if this is the chinchilla version of grinding their teeth or not. They also bit through all the cords holding up their hammock and peed on it when it was on the floor. I do not understand this. It'd be like me eating through my mattress, then tearing up my comforter and forgetting my years of successful toilet training. It's bizarre. I did point this out to them, but they were unmoved by my pleas to not destroy any more of their cage. Troublemaker jumped on my shoulder in response, and Stardust bit me. They're lucky I don't give them to Wynni and get something cuddlier, like a boa constrictor.**

**So last time I told you how excited I was to have 100 followers. *Squints at you all suspiciously.* Who unfollowed? Really, who? You couldn't have waited a week for someone else to favorite so I wouldn't notice? That was cold. I felt it right in my shriveled, evil heart. I mean, I love you all anyway, but didn't I tell you I would ramble?**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new favorites! *Squints suspiciously.***

**afeleon276: You like hearing about my life? Aww, shucks. I hope this one wasn't too incoherent. I knew I had to include Estormo somehow. I mean, the man is priceless. And his parents, who had presumably centuries to pick out a baby name, when with Estormo? No wonder he joined the Thalmor. Banana elf has something to prove. Darva will get lots of cuddles and reassurances that she's not evil. Papa will also assure her that she's not evil, then initiate a fun game of Invading Daggerfall. **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I'm afraid Estormo has already taken up residence in the Shivering Isles, unable to come to grips with the wonders he has seen. He's wearing Blitzen. **

**Wynni: In all the times Miraak envisioned taking down Morokei, I can guarantee that scenario didn't occur to him. "Gleeful" is a good descriptor. Don't worry: Ysmir is the reckless one, so Miraak shall retain his less-that-lawful-good characteristics when he is not hanging around his somewhat disapproving baby-momma. I adore the name Mischief. I really want a kitty. Matt's allergic, though. I hope Butch is continuing to mend. :)**

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**Next Time: Darva has a surprise for everyone. **


	80. Chapter 80: Treasured One

Darva stared at the Grand Mistress, horrified. "No," she whispered hoarsely.

Delphine halted, taking a deep breath before spearing the girl she carried a sharp glance. "No?" she repeated softly, her voice heralding doom the equal of any dragon Shout.

The child felt her chin tremble. "I'm not a neco-man-thingy," she replied, heart beating so hard and fast she was amazed Meanie Delphine hadn't noticed.

"You don't have to be," the Grand Mistress informed her dismissively, much to the girl's dismay. "Those Words I've been giving you? They form a Shout. A long one, longer than your mother ever managed."

"Shouts are three Words," Darva countered.

"Think of this as a spell and a Shout," Delphine recommended, walking around the large pile of dirt that had grown between Darva and the skeletons. The little Dragonborn froze, staring. Not two skeletons, but three. The third was no bigger than a pony, and curled behind the ribs of the biggest one, encircled protectively by spine and tail.

Darva looked up at the tree, the big, gorgeous tree that dominated the entire cavern. She looked at the bones, the two big sets and the tiny little set, held inside the gleaming ivory like a treasured secret.

"No!" she shrieked, her voice at full strength since no one had given her that awful potion that morning—her volume had steadily been growing back to its normal range, the fuzziness in her head that she'd nearly forgotten about ebbing. Kicking out, she shoved at Delphine's face, taking the woman by surprise. The Blade dropped her, sending her tumbling into the loose earth. Scrambling to her feet, she raced back to Esbern. Esbern was nice; Esbern had authority. "Mister Esbern!" she screamed. "Don't make me do it! Please!" she begged, grabbing onto his tunic frantically, full on panic in her eyes.

Esbern glanced from the frightened child to the angry Blade Mistress rubbing her red eye where tiny fingers had poked it, completely lost. "Those bones are ancient, child. There will be no soul there."

"It's Hahnu!" she cried, deathbell eyes filling with tears. "It's Hahnu from the story! She made Grandda Paarthurnax teach people the Voice so Alduin couldn't bully them anymore! I can't hurt her!"

Esbern sighed, feeling quite old—more than old enough to not want to deal with this. She'd just called their oldest enemy "grandda," for Talos's sake. "You can't hurt her, Darva; she's quite dead!"

"And, if she's to be of any use to us, that has to change," Delphine groused, reaching them and yanking the girl's hand away from where she clung to the Blade Scholar's robe. The fabric actually ripped, she was gripping so hard.

"You mean to bring her back?" Jori asked, hand over mouth as she stared at Delphine in horror. "Grand Mistress, all due respect, but we signed on to kill dragons, we would prefer them to stay dead!"

The grim curving of the Grand Mistress's lips could hardly be called a smile. Esbern felt chills race down his spine. "I know, Jori. The dragons deserve to die in pain, as they inflicted on countless humans. And she will. Look at her—how long do you think her new life will last carrying the corpse of her youngling inside her?"

Darva gasped, glancing at the small set of bones in absolute horror. Jori rushed forward and held the child's curls back as she was sick, pulling the sobbing, retching girl against her, actually shielding her from the Grand Mistress.

"I cannot condone this," Esbern whispered, wondering when exactly the bright young woman he had first given history lessons to had lost every shred of empathy she'd had. But he knew. It was when she had run. When she had spent decades hiding in fear, losing friends and comrades to an enemy too big to fight. Dragons she could fight. Dragons she could kill. Dragons she could take her rage out on with impunity. And she had been saving a particularly brutal fate for the dragon that had taken her last hope from her.

"He stole Ysmir from us, Esbern. He deserves to have something equally precious stolen from him. You know as well as I do that the female dragons weren't resurrected. You read the accounts of how fiercely the dragons defended the females from the ancient Blades. Perhaps having his own mate brought back will finally draw that bastard out of hiding." Reaching down, Delphine went to pull the sobbing Dragonborn away from her protégé.

Jori leapt to her feet, shoving the child behind her and placing herself firmly between her superior and the girl. "This is wrong, Grand Mistress," she said firmly, eyes desperate and pleading. "Look at her! Don't make her do this. She doesn't see any difference yet between dragons and humans. How would you react if someone told you they were doing the same thing to an Argonian woman? Or an elf? Or any one race because they didn't believe them to be their equal? I understand your desire to enact justice on Paarthurnax, but don't force the Dragonborn to turn herself into a monster!"

The Breton's gaze was glacial. "Dragons are the monsters, Jori. Or have you forgotten seeing your father torn to bits with the other guards defending Solitude?"

"I haven't forgotten one moment," the girl whispered, face pale. Every drop of blood stained her memory. It was why her Thane had encouraged this, why she had allowed her to get revenge and keep an eye on the Blades at the same time. Jordis the Sword Maiden hadn't understood then. Now, now she could see what Ysmir had been worried would happen. Revenge, she had told Jordis, could consume you. Fear could consume you. Both, left uncheck, would consume everything in their way before leaving nothing but pain and regret.

Delphine's eyes flickered down to where Jori's hand rested on the hilt of her katana. "You feel that strongly about it?" she asked softly.

The young Nord nodded firmly. "I do. Please, don't force Honey-Bee into this. We'll find some other way to lure Paarthurnax out of hiding. Just the threat of bringing this dragon back might be enough!"

Pressing her ice-blue eyes tightly shut, Delphine nodded curtly. Jori smiled in relief, relaxing slightly and taking her hand off her sword. "Thank you," she breathed, then gasped as the older woman drew her sword with impossible speed, getting her shield up just in time to deflect the worst of the blow. "What are you doing?" she cried, aghast as the blade scraped across the armor encasing her arm.

"'Honey-Bee?'" the Breton echoed, circling the younger woman. "No one calls her that." Darting forward, she jammed her arm into Jordis's, preventing her from pulling her sword from its sheath, curling one leg around the taller woman's to tie up her movement. "No one but her family," she hissed.

Jordis was a strong woman and a talented warrior, but Delphine had been at this a long time. She had survived multiple assassination attempts by some of the most ruthless killers in the world. She was a Blade, and she knew how to strike. Pain bloomed in the young woman's side. Gazing down, Jordis could barely see the ebony dagger her teacher had slid with practiced ease between two of the bands of steel. Shoving forward with her arm and pulling backwards with her leg, Delphine pulled the Nord off-balance, watching impassively as she crashed to the ground, curling around her wound in shock. "I should have known," she muttered, disappointment a thin veneer over her stony expression. "I should have _known_ you were a mole." Jordis cried out as the Blade Mistress stomped down on her shield, her arms caught uselessly against her chest, trapping her beneath the older woman's weight. The few Blades permitted inside at the moment stared, taken aback by the abrupt turning of Mistress on protégé. "You were too perfect, too well-trained. I will miss you," she added sadly, angling her sword over the girl's face.

_"Fus Ro Dah!"_

The world whirled and twisted as Delphine was sent flying. She crashed into a pile of earth more than a dozen feet away, bruised and winded. If the Sanctuary had been hushed before, it was absolutely silent now. Delphine groaned, pulling herself painfully to her feet from where she had landed, thrown by the Shout of the tiny Dragonborn now pulling her traitor student up from the ground. "Leave her alone!" Darva cried hoarsely, glaring balefully at Delphine. She really looked far too much like her mother for comfort when she did that.

"Traitors die a traitor's death," Delphine replied flatly, clambering painfully to her feet.

"Grand Mistress…" Wonderful; now Fjotli was interjecting. "If I may, many of us have ties to the Dragonborn. It may be too soon to assume she's a traitor. After all, that Redguard boy called her Honey-Bee quite a few times."

"She didn't deny it, either," Garrot growled, glaring at the bleeding woman the little Dragonborn was currently fussing over, apologizing that she couldn't Heal people. Esbern was struggling to kneel next to her, Heal Other shining from his hand.

Thinking swiftly, Delphine retrieved her Blade's sword, striding over to the pair. "Esbern, don't."

He glared at her, "She's injured, Delphine! Even if she is some kind of informant planted by the Dragonborn, that hardly warrants a death sentence!"

"Blades give up all other ties and oaths, Esbern!"

"If that were as true in practice as it was meant to be, half our information and recruiting networks never would have existed!" he snapped. "You're taking this too far, Delphine. Look at yourself!"

"I'll do it," Darva put in unexpectedly.

Everyone glanced down to the downturned head, the tumble of curls glinting faintly in the light. "What?" Delphine asked, thinking she must not have heard correctly.

"I'll bring Hahnu back," she elaborated, glaring up at the Blade's Mistress with so fierce an expression that Delphine briefly wondered what she had gotten herself into. "But if I do, you don't hurt her! You let Mister Esbern Heal Jori, and you don't hurt her, either! And you don't punish him, because I know you want to. You don't like anyone who says no to you, and he says no a lot. You don't like Momma because she said no to you, and you don't like me. So you don't do anything to Hahnu, and you don't do anything to Mister Esbern, and you let Jori get better and don't do anything to her."

For a long moment everyone just stared at the girl, then the woman she faced off with. Honestly, a few of them were wondering why they were even bothering with this, and a few more were thinking that they should have waited until this new Dragonborn was firmly theirs before pushing this on her. One or two, though, were seeing this child—barely more than a toddler—speaking like an adult and glaring at their Mistress for all she was worth, and realizing just exactly what they were dealing with. And once that realization set in, admiration was born. This girl, this Dragonborn, was capable of what every Dragonborn before her had been capable of. This girl could become a god, and they would follow her to the ends of the earth.

At length, Delphine finally barked, "Deal," and tugged the girl to her feet, practically dragging her over before the large skeleton with the tiny form inside it. Drawing forth a folded parchment, she showed Darva the scrawled letters inked with particular care onto the dust-colored surface. "I heard you read this easier than Common," she said, voice dripping with disapproval.

Darva took it calmly; for the first time in her life she neither wanted nor cared about someone's approval or disapproval of her. She did not like Meanie Delphine, and had come to the conclusion that however Bad she was becoming, Delphine was infinitely worse.

The Words glowed to her eyes, glimmering across the surface of the parchment with their hidden potential. She knew them all, thanks to the harridan beside her, though she had not learned them in order. "Your dragon spirit bound for eternity. Flesh Time Undo," she read to herself. Above them, the words "Kyne's First Daughter." Glancing up from the writing to the bones before her, she asked, "So I Shout her name, then the spell, then the Shout?"

"That's right," Delphine assured her, not even bothering to look reassuring or friendly anymore. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

"That's not her name," Darva muttered under her breath.

The other Blades circled the bones, but Darva didn't pay them much attention. Her stomach ached with tension, her eyes hurt with the effort of not crying. Delphine wouldn't care if she cried. It wouldn't do any good. The only ones who cared if she cried were the ones she was trying to protect. Well, them and Fjotli, but Darva had seen the doubt growing in her for days. She wasn't sure how she knew Fjotli's spirit was wavering, but she was certain of it. That was why only these Blades were allowed in here; these were the ones Delphine was sure of. None of them knew her momma, and all of them were willing to follow a bully like Delphine.

Well, she had a surprise for Delphine.

_"Lovaas Unslaad Hahnu! Ziil gro dovah ulse,"_ she Spoke, the Blades staggering as the cavern shook. Darva's throat hurt, caught. That was alright; if her Voice broke, Delphine couldn't use it. It would have to hold up long enough, though. Taking a deep breath, she Shouted, _"Slen Tiid Vo!" _

The bones began to shift, to move. Fire gathered around them, the aurora pouring out of the very air to form flesh. Pure gold seemed to flow over the form. Darva took the Healing potion Delphine handed her, knowing it would be laced with the poison for her Voice.

_"Bormah, what would you call me if I was a dragon?"_

_"Your name, when you chose it."_

_"Oh. What about before that?"_

_"Lokalaat Gein! Ziil gro dovah ulse!"_ she cried, Voice cracking. Darva felt dizzy. The great head turned in her direction as she fell to her knees, glowing blue eyes the color of the sky in midsummer regarding her even as flesh formed in fire around them. Her mouth moved. No Shout came. Delphine was grabbing her, bringing the hand with the potion bottle to her mouth. She couldn't Shout. _"Slen Tiid Vo,"_ she whispered, hoping, praying it was enough.

The world went black.

.

* * *

.

"Esbern!" Delphine shrieked, watching wide-eyed as flesh began to form on the inner skeleton before it was shielded by gold scales. "Esbern, _what did she do?"_

Esbern was staring at the reforming dragon in complete dumbfoundment. "That wasn't the name," he stammered. "That wasn't the name we found!"

"What is this? _Fos koros?"_ the dragon demanded, head swinging back and forth as she tried to get her bearings. "Why are there men in my temple?" Massive gold wings mantled above them in agitation, the golden neck arching like an angry swan's.

"Lock her down!" Delphine screamed, eyes wide as she clutched the Dragonborn to her. This dragon would not harm her. No, not this child. She was Ysmir's still, but Delphine had her now. She would raise her, and the girl would know the true face of dragons. And this dragon…this dragon was worse than most. Her scales, so like the golden skin that haunted her dreams, her claws like the swords that cut through the members of her cell, her eyes…Delphine stopped, staring at the dragon's eyes. There was no rage there, no malice, only confusion and sorrow and…surely not…

The eyes snapped shut, breaking their spell. Kaandiistmon's shriek of pain and surprise nearly brought the Sanctuary down upon them. Her head crashed to the ground with the weight of the trap—the design stolen from Dragonsreach—upon her neck. The Grand Mistress's loyal Blades rushed forth, staking through the delicate membranes of her wings with massive spikes, pinning them to the floor. Garrot rushed forward and slid a muzzle over the glowing jaw, preventing her from opening her mouth more than a few inches.

The dragon did not struggle. Breathing deep, she opened her lambent eyes and took stock of her position. Delphine focused her gaze on the thing's faceplate, refusing to look into those hypnotic eyes. This was a dragon, a ruthless killer. It should not have eyes that made the Grand Mistress recall bright summer days playing with her sisters, picking cornflowers and watching clouds.

_"Joor,_ what have you done?" the dragon asked her with commendable tranquility. Her voice was…amazing. Like listening to a choir of the best bards in the world, singing together in such perfect synch you couldn't tell where one voice ended and the others began. Harmonies so closely entwined there was no difference shaded each word, ghost notes calling back from the shivering cerise petals of the tree above.

Delphine took a deep breath, eyes closed as she recalled her rage, her vengeance. Blood and tears, golden skin and accusing violet eyes danced in her mind as she hardened her heart against the spell of the dragon before her. Lifting the Dragonborn with her as she pushed herself to her feet, she opened her eyes and smirked at the beast. "I have trapped you, and when your mate hears of this he will cease his cowardly hiding, and I shall kill him."

The eyes turned cold. Yes, that was better. "Have a care, mortal, I do not like harming your kind, but I have sworn no oath against it." She glanced at the Blades around her. "I recall dying, some time ago. You do me harm, yet you are not the ones that killed me. Truly, Alduin's depravity must know no bounds if he brought me back only to kill me again."

Darva was starting to stir. Delphine shook her to aid the process. "It was not Alduin who returned you to the world of the living," the Grand Mistress announced triumphantly. "It was the Dragonborn, and she shall be the one to harvest your mate's soul when we kill him. Then, we'll be coming back for yours."

The child's eyes snapped open, and Delphine placed her on her feet, hands on both her shoulders as Dragonborn faced dragon for the first time. Violet eyes met blue for several long moments, and to Delphine's intense satisfaction she could feel the child trembling. Good; let the girl see the true nature of the _dov._ They had no love for mortals at the best of times—this dragon would surely be harsh to the creature destined to render the final death to herself and her closest companion.

Kaandiistmon drew back as much as the trap would allow. "I know your face," she whispered, sounding utterly shocked.

Darva looked at the great golden dragon, frightened beyond telling. She didn't care if Delphine didn't like her, but this was Hahnu! And…and…she whirled, wide eyes gazing up at Delphine accusingly. "You said you wouldn't hurt her! You promised!"

Delphine looked annoyed. "I didn't. My Blades took precautions against this dragon causing any harm to you, or escaping out into the world."

"She's not going anywhere, she's full of baby!" Darva protested, sounding much older than five and honestly, shouldn't the daughter of a half-elf be _less_ developed than her fully human peers? It made Delphine wonder briefly who her father was, though she could fully see Ysmir giving her keepers this much trouble as a child. "Kyne is Kynareth, and she likes all life and good things. Hahnu is her daughter. She wouldn't hurt you!"

"How do you know my name?" the dragon interrupted gently, eyes fixed on the child.

Darva looked back at the dragon nervously. "Bormah told me your story," she admitted, biting her lip as she realized that she could have called for him the moment she felt the poison weakening. Too late now; that sickly sweet film from the poison was coating the back of her throat, making her feel like she was about to cough. Delphine must have poured it in her mouth when she fainted.

Hahnu blinked, mouth parting slightly in surprise. "Bormah?" she repeated. "Of course. My mortal son. You're his. He thrives?" she asked anxiously.

Unsure how to answer that but feeling as if she were missing something important, Darva opened her mouth to reply that she never got a chance to hear the rest of the story when Meanie Delphine roughly pulled her back up, setting her on her hip firmly. "Your mother has been feeding you more than just the dragon's language, I see," she said tartly, sounding very annoyed.

Beyond them, hovering over the wounded Jori as she was bundled into a bedroll, Esbern stared at the girl, mouth hanging open. _"Bormah…"_ he mouthed, translating the word as his mind did some rapid calculations. "Oh, Ysmir, what have you done?" he breathed.

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**Hello everyone. Long time no write. I hope you're still here. This has been a positively awful month for me (I daresay the only good thing about the entire month was Deadpool [go see it]). The thing I really hate about living in Michigan is that the only difference between a regular day and a day with a Snow Emergency is that you leave about an hour earlier for work. It snowed seven to twelve inches in one day, the mayor gave the road crews the day off because it was too dangerous for them to be out, but I still had to go to work, and I was hardly the only one. I've gotten to the point where I am having panic attacks every time I have to drive in snow, mostly because there really aren't enough plows, people are idiots, and I don't want to end up in someone's front yard, smashed through their fence a second time this year. Also, I had to dig myself INTO my driveway, then out of it a few hours later.**

**Enough about my phobia of driving, I suppose. You all have things to do today.**

**I'm back over a hundred followers! I love you all! Welcome, new followers and favorites! And thank you for sticking around, old followers and favorites. Sorry things are taking so long. I get fired from my seasonal job in April, so I may have more time to write then if I can't find a job right away. If I can't, I might be taking art commissions. **

**Some other notes: I posted another prequel one-shot called Anniversary. It's the celebration of the first anniversary of Alduin's defeat. It won the Legends of Skyrim Anniversary Competition, and I am quite proud of it. :) I'm also up on Archive now, and have been re-working and editing the story as I go, so once I have a little more time I will be replacing the chapters here with edited content. Those of you who like to re-read stories (like me) will have some new things to look out for. Also, a fellow Skyrim fanfiction author (referred to as Masterless here, I believe) is writing a crossover story about Ysmir and his Dovahkiin, Onyx, where they meet thanks to the machinations of Clavicus Vile. It's on it's second chapter now over on DeviantArt. (**** : / / fav . me / d9egm03 Or just go to Deviantart and look up Skyrim Chronicles, Dragon Kin)**

**I don't know if you guys are aware, but I live about thirty-five minutes from Flint (that place with the water problems). Whatever you guys are seeing on the news, there's always more to it. If you are able, they could really use the donations. Thanks. **

**Thank you everyone who commented! I had so many lovely comments this time around!**

**StellaStone: Always happy to share my obsession-I mean, my love of Miraak. :D Thank you so much!**

**nightskye01: Thank you! I do enjoy plotting. :)**

**Guest: You're so welcome. Your comment came at just the right time: I was having such a bad day the first time I saw it. I love sharing my stories with people, and I enjoy talking with people about them, and their own tales. Most of my stuff ends up super long. ^^; **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I'm not sure I want Dagon reading my story. Darva's very presence might go all Friendship is Magic on him, and then where would we be? **

**Nargus: I guess your question is technically answered now. :P**

**Wynni: He is very attractive, in an "I'd smack that look off your face but you're too pretty" kind of way. You're safe: Troublemaker and Stardust are remaining with me, where they can wound me with their rejection of my affection, because I am apparently a masochist like that. Doesn't Butch know that cats zero in on the person who cares the least? (Maybe I should try that with the chins...) I hope he continues to heal. **

**afeleon276: Hey, he wanted to see the Skies of Skyrim again, he should expect a little snow! XD But Miraak gave him a nice inky coat, so his visit wasn't too terrible. Rommy does know how to keep himself entertained.**

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**Next time: Ysmir and Co. go face Ancano, who has had an entire week to mess around with the Eye. In other words, Ancano is himself and Things Get Weird. **


	81. Chapter 81: Aurbis

**I must apologize ahead of time. I told myself when I started, "Evil, no deep lore. Deep lore is weird and confusing, so don't include it." Then I wrote this chapter. Bad Evil. No soup for you. **

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The inner barrier was just as irritating as the outer one had been. Ysmir glared at it, ears ringing with the compressed magicka in the small space. In the doorway, magical energy swirled in a tight, opaque wall, preventing them from even seeing the Hall of Elements within. Around the barrier, the edges of the stones had a faint, transparent quality that reminded her of the draugr in Labyrinthian, as if they weren't entirely of this world anymore.

"How did he funnel magic to the outer barrier through this one?" Tolfdir wondered aloud, sounding almost admiring.

"It's an Aldmer trick," Ysmir and Faralda said in unison. Her former teacher gave her a startled look, then waved for her to continue, obviously wanting to see just how much Ysmir knew. Gritting her teeth for the lapse, she simply dodged the question, "Which we can talk about later. Tolfdir, now would be a good time to practice using that," she said, nodding to the Staff of Magnus.

"Of course," he said quickly, snapping his mind back to the matter at hand. Lifting the Staff, he began to funnel magic out of the barrier, his surprised expression outlined in misty blue light as it flared. "My…my goodness!" he breathed. "I can feel it flowing into me! My magicka reserves have never been so full!"

The lone Synod mage that had braved the confrontation gave him a wary look. "What happens when they're overfull?" he asked, shuffling away slightly as if he expected the elderly mage to explode. Considering what the Synod had been up to the last few decades, Ysmir found this slightly concerning.

"He'll hand the Staff to someone else," Miraak put in irritably, his patience for their constant magical maunderings very near its limit. It was like living with Felldir all over again.

Abruptly, the inner barrier fell with a flash of dazzling light that thankfully hid Miraak's stagger as pure Aedric energy washed over him. He gave Ysmir a little nod, knowing she'd have noticed anyway. Her still, cold expression didn't waver, her eyes flickering back to the room beyond once she knew he was alright. He hadn't seen that expression since fighting her on the Summit.

"Come for me, have you?" Ancano sneered, watching as the Dragonborn strode purposefully into the room, followed by half a dozen wary mages. "You think I don't know what you're up to? You think I can't destroy you?" He stood beyond the floating orb, lightning-like Levin-bolts arching from the Artifact to his hands, the power pooling in his palms before soaking into him, attuning him to the energies of the Eye and allowing him to manipulate it. Ysmir circled the hovering Eye warily, purple eyes never leaving the elven mage. Perhaps someone unfamiliar with Altmer would be unable to tell what he was doing, but she knew enough Aldmiri philosophies to make some guesses as to his intent. By Faralda and Nirya's startled expressions, they must have realized it as well.

Ancano smiled tightly, triumphantly, as she came to stand near him, aware of the others fanning out around the Eye. Through it all, the Thalmor's gaze never left her, the way it hadn't all through her apprenticeship, seeing far more than she wanted him to. That discerning watchfulness was probably what had won him this post. Despite the insults and his dismissive attitude, Ancano knew who the real threat to him was. His hands never wavered, continuing to transmute his own essence into that of the Eye. Ysmir briefly wondered where he had learned how to do that. Her eyes flickered to the tips of his fingers, seemingly lost in the blaze of white light, but through the crackle she could see their near-transparent state. He was starting to unravel.

"The power to unmake the world at my fingertips," he boasted, staring her down, "and you think you can do anything about it?"

"You're killing yourself, Ancano," she told him lowly, her voice falling softly into the eerie quiet beneath the throbbing drone of the Eye. In the blue light of the Aetherial font he shimmered with his own golden life energy, gilding his robes and hiding the pallor of his cheeks, nearly masking the mad fervor in his eyes.

His brow lowered in a scowl. "I am being remade, and I will remake this world with me!"

"Enough of this!" Drevis growled, sending a fireball hurtling towards the mage.

Ancano scoffed derisively, the flames scattering as they hit him and falling away harmlessly. "Ha! I am beyond your pathetic attempts at magic!" he crowed as the rest of the mages took up the assault. Ysmir jumped back as the elements in their most destructive forms ricocheted off the High Elf, jaw clenched as she watched. "You cannot touch me!"

"Spells have no effect!" Tolfdir cried in dismay, clutching the Staff as he watched in horror.

Ysmir flexed her shoulders and drew Dawnbreaker. "Not a problem," she assured him. "Focus on draining that thing."

"It's going to flare," Miraak—strangely quiet up to this point—put in. Ysmir glanced at him questioningly to see him staring at the Eye, his own eyes watering as if he stared into the sun. "As soon as his control over it ends, it's going to become unstable."

Tolfdir blinked at him worriedly. "How do you know that?"

"Later," Ysmir snapped. "Brelyna, if that happens, keep the anomalies off Tolfdir."

"Right," the Dunmer said firmly, nodding curtly as she shook off her nerves and readied her spells.

"Still you persist?" Ancano yelled as he continued to be assaulted by spells. "Very well!" Magic flashed as he threw his arms apart, a ripple of wispy green light spreading through the room and catching everyone who was unable to put up a ward with a powerful paralysis spell. Those nearest Ancano fell to the floor, the Synod mage dove behind a pillar, and Drevis tumbled sideways, cracking his head against a magelight well. Faralda and Nirya were, strangely enough, both hiding behind the Destruction Master's ward. They leapt to where the Dark Elf lay, and Faralda stood guard as Nirya began to drag him towards the door, casting frantic glances the male Altmer's way as she tugged at the fallen Dark Elf.

Ancano laughed at the action. "Come," he mocked his fellow Altmer, "See what I can do now."

The world shifted as several swirling orbs of Conjuration appeared, scattered throughout the room. Brelyna gasped and stumbled backwards as a Frost Atronach barreled through the portal nearest her, massive arm crashing to the ground where she had just been. Frantically, the Conjurer summoned a Flame Thrall to fend it off. "How is he summoning so many?" she cried, sending bolt after bolt of fire at the thing.

"Tolfdir!" Ysmir urged, cutting a Scamp in half and dodging sideways to avoid an errant fireball.

"I'm a bit busy at the moment!" the old man called back, warding away the attacks of a Storm Atronach. "How is he doing this?"

"It's the power he's stealing from the Eye," Miraak replied tiredly, knocking the thing back and banishing it with a glare as it belatedly realized just who it was attacking. He battered a second Scamp aside with his gauntlet, grabbing it by the face and tossing it onto a Flame Atronach. "Hurry up, old man."

Ancano paused, whipping around at Miraak's voice, his already tight smile vanishing into a slashed grimace as he searched about for the source. For a moment he was still, then he whirled, throwing the Last Dragonborn back against a pillar as she crept up on him. "Fool! I can sense you! The weak, pathetic magic coursing through your veins calls out to the Eye!"

Ysmir gasped as her back hit the pillar, stars dancing before her eyes. Her hands were pressed out to her sides by the same spell, ripping Dawnbreaker from her grasp and holding her aloft, actually defying gravity to slide her further from the ground. She looked up to see Ancano frowning at her, their eyes for once on the same level. "You're different," he muttered, as if trying to puzzle something out. "Something is…different."

_"Gaan La Haas!"_ she spat, draining his magicka as surely as the Staff would as the drone changed to a wail and the Altmer flung himself away from her. She slid to the ground, tucking to the other side of the pillar the moment her feet touched the floor.

"No!" Ancano bellowed, enraged. The Eye pulsed, the puzzle-like pieces breaking apart and whirling around each other, revealing the light hidden inside. Blue fire danced over the ebon armored shell, and anomalies poured into the room, attacking indiscriminately.

Ysmir yelped, ducking out of the way as a floating mass of magicka darted towards her. She warded, protecting herself long enough to get her bearings, only for the ward to shatter as someone overwhelmed it with magic from the outside, attacking the spell at its feed point the way only another Altmer-trained mage would know how to do. The air was driven from her lungs as she found herself back up against the pillar, Ancano's hand around her throat as he lifted her bodily this time, pressed against her in a uncomfortably familiar way as he hissed into her face. "I knew it! I _knew_ you were Faloniril's! You little traitor! I should drag you back to Alinor in chains!"

Gasping, she let her eyes flutter closed, waiting for the slight slackening of his grip when he believed she had passed out. Her lungs burned, her head swam, but she still managed to bring a knee up into the Altmer's groin the moment he stepped back—something she never would have been able to do if he weren't insisting on holding her up. He cried out in pain and dropped her, Healing adding itself to the gold magic glinting over his robes as he stumbled away. The Eye flared again as his concentration wavered, marked by a startled cry from Tolfdir as the extra energy burned off as light. The crackle and buzz of battle magic resumed a moment later as both summon and mages alike recovered.

"You know," Ysmir croaked, after a quick spell of her own, "the last time you figured it out you were a lot more civil." He glanced up, startled, then frantically warded away a pair of anomalies that had finally figured out whose fault this all was. A glint behind the nearby mage well betrayed the location of Dawnbreaker, and Ysmir smiled grimly as she reclaimed the Daedric blade, tapping it idly on the outside of the elf's ward to get his attention. _"Fus Ro Dah!"_

Elf and anomaly alike went flying, the ward shattering as Ancano hit the wall. "It was almost romantic, in the kind of twisted, self-serving way you people think," she added, following at a more leisurely pace. "You brought me wine, told me I was talented, and offered to bring me into the proper fold of things. Someone with my fire abilities would be welcome in the ranks, you said. My grandfather would applaud our union, you said." She laughed humorlessly, "It was rather painfully obvious how low in the Thalmor ranks you actually are, how little they think of you. You really thought dragging back a half-breed runaway would get you written into an old Bloodline."

The Thalmor snarled at her, leaping to his feet and reaching for the Eye, Levin-bolts arching between them momentarily, just long enough to seal the Artifact's shell before he had to draw his hand back or have it cut off. Ysmir twisted the arch of the blade toward the Altmer, slicing across his thigh. "You little wretch!" he growled at her, summoning a blade of his own and knocking her next strike off-course. "I would never—"

"Not sober, no, but you're hardly the first man to let his lower brain make the decisions while overindulging," she shrugged, half her attention on the fluctuations of the Eye whenever Ancano reacted. She needed to discover just how much he had managed to attune himself to it. Could she kill him without it going completely unstable? Despite learning her earliest magical theory with Altmer teachers, she had neither the knowledge nor the Sight to read the varied webs of magic and energy that made up all living things.

But judging from what he had done to Durnehviir, Miraak could.

Ancano looked almost green as he knocked her next strike away, "You—how dare—I would never lie with such a lowly creature as you!" he burst out, Thalmor conditioning and Altmer pride kicking in as she circled him, slowly but surely turning his back to the Eye as Tolfdir drained it of magic. She wished she dared call Miraak over to examine the ties between elf and Artifact, but he seemed to be struggling in the presence of all the pure energy pouring out from Aetherius. He was holding his own as well as anyone else, but compared with what she knew he was capable of he was rather badly off.

Forcing a smile on her face, Ysmir continued to goad him, putting just enough skill into her blade work to keep him off-balance until she could decide what to do. It was probably best to just knock him unconscious until they could stabilize the Eye and measure the extent of his link to it. Bringing Dawnbreaker back around to hamstring him, she stumbled as the building seemed to lurch momentarily, sending her skidding for a few heart-stopping moments. The stones flickered, showing her the Midden below as if the Hall was made of glass, then the frothing waves further beyond. It lasted only a moment before stabilizing, but it was enough. Decision made; this needed to end. Seeking to break his resolve completely, she smirked up at him, "From what I hear, you don't remember that night at all. How do you know you _didn't_ spend it with me, Ancano?"

Wild denial flooded his eyes, tinged with just a hint of uncertainty. That was the problem with conditioning like the Thalmor gave their soldiers—sooner or later, the real person would come out, and when they did, what they wanted often clashed with what they had been taught. In Young Ones, they often didn't live long enough for the disparity to eat them alive, but with the long-lived Altmer, it had centuries to corrode them from within, often making them loath themselves as much as the so-called lesser races.

With a wild cry, Ancano dove at her, his blade posed to stab right through her chest. Ysmir Shouted to slow time, stepped aside, and hit him squarely behind his elongated ear, neatly knocking him out for the time being. He fell as time resumed its normal pace, eyes sliding shut and sword vanishing back to Oblivion.

Ignoring him for the moment, Ysmir raced out into the room, joining the two remaining mages and Miraak in destroying the anomalies as Ancano's small army of summons vanished back where they came from. Nirya peeked out from behind a pillar, dragging the last of the paralyzed mages into the antechamber of the Hall, where Collette and some of the apprentices tended them. It seemed she and Faralda had left the fighting to them, concentrating on getting out everyone who was unable to leave on their own. The women exchanged satisfied glances for a moment before realizing who they were looking at, and turning resolutely away.

"There will be more in a moment," Miraak said tiredly, for once looking completely exhausted as he leaned against a pillar. Ysmir raced over, not bothering to hide her alarm, but he gave her a little grin. "We almost fell into the ocean for a moment," he explained quietly. "There was too much magicka built up in the stones."

She frowned as she remembered the sight of the shore below them; that magic had to have gone somewhere, "I thought the energy coming out of that thing was inimical to you."

He held up his hand so that she could see the transparent quality of his fingers. "It is…but not completely. I was human once."

Crisis be damned, Ysmir pulled him down for a scorching kiss that made him rather glad she had been too far away at the time to simply grab and vanish with, as had been his first instinct when he realized the College was about to crumble. He'd saved them, yes, but he'd only cared about saving her. Still, that had been damned uncomfortable, not to mention the first time since killing Hermaeus Mora that he'd wondered if he could die.

A disapproving cough made them both turn to see the Synod mage giving them a baleful look. "If you're not too busy, perhaps you might explain how you seem to know every time that thing is going to spout those blasted magic wraiths?"

Miraak looked at him levelly. "I would, but it's about to 'spout' again."

Looking irritated, the mage opened his mouth to upbraid them, but a flare from the Eye interrupted him. Anomalies spilled into the room with the burst of magic, making Miraak wince and Ysmir send a wave of thunderbolts at a group of the angry, hissing anomalies.

"Ysmir!" Brelyna cried out suddenly, catching Tolfdir as he fell. The Dragonborn watched in horror as the old mage dropped the Staff, his face a mask of surprised pain as he clutched his chest. Using the first Word of Whirlwind Sprint she skidded to a halt by their side, Healing magic already going as she urged the elderly Nord's heart to continue beating, soothing the overwhelmed muscle as best she could. Behind them, the droning of the Eye of Magnus took on a higher pitch. Wordlessly, Ysmir shoved the Staff at her friend.

.

* * *

.

Brelyna picked up the Staff with a trembling hand, her other still holding tightly to her mentor's as she aimed the head at the Eye. She hated that thing. She'd always hated that thing, from the moment she saw it in Saarthal. After a while seeing it floating in the Hall of Elements, emitting its constant, faint hum of magicka, she'd gotten used to seeing it. But every once in a while she'd stop and just look at it. The Eye was not evil, but still, it had made her uneasy. She hadn't liked being alone with it, feeling as if she stood on the top of the Red Mountain, gazing down into the plumes of ash to its heart. Now, it was pouring out more magic by the second, and it might have killed one of her few friends.

Magic flooded through her, into the empty space of her spent reserves. Knots in her shoulders and back eased, the slight headache she'd had since this all began flowing away. The scent of ozone and the slight hint of brimstone that always accompanied her Flame Thrall took on a fresh, floral tinge, as if she stood in a Skyrim meadow on the first real day of spring. She was vaguely aware that fighting had resumed around her some minutes ago, Ysmir's strange companion looking slightly ill as he disappeared behind the other side of the well, Faralda taking on the anomalies with fire, Ancano staggering towards her with lighting dancing over his hands and wrists.

She blinked, coming back to herself. "Ysmir!" she shrieked, falling over and watching as the Altmer banished her Flame Thrall. Her friend and mentor vanished in a wall of lightning the madman sent their way as he walked, the golden glow about him brightening the closer he got to the Eye. A cut above his eye sealed as she watched, the glow brightening about it until it was gone.

"You little nitwit!" he cried, lunging for her, "Give me that!"

Brelyna rolled clumsily to her feet, dashing to the other side of the well and aiming the Staff at the Eye again. Chances were fairly good that if Ancano didn't want her draining magic out of the Eye, it was exactly what needed to be done. So she kept at it, warding the man away with one hand as she backed away, watching his increasing fury as she managed to hold off his magic until he actually beat against her ward with his fists.

"You vile girl, you have no idea what you're doing!" he thundered just as the Eye flared brighter than ever before, filling the room with new anomalies.

Brelyna wasn't prepared for the rush of energy that surged through the Staff and into her. All her senses came alive, and she could see the world around her in a curious, semi-transparent quality, as if she were only half in reality. Ancano…Ancano seemed solid. So did Ysmir's friend, though he was surrounded by inky shadows that writhed and curled in a way that she didn't want to look at too long. Where Ysmir was…was an orb, a bright orb that held out everything around it. She felt a surge of relief as she realized her friend had managed to put up a ward before Ancano could kill them. Below them was a light, like a faint magelight coming closer. She didn't have much time to dwell on that as the High Elf bowled her over, trapping her beneath him as he tried to wrestle the Staff from her grip.

"Ysmir!" she cried, panicking as she looked up into the wide, glowing eyes above her. Arcs of magic connected the mage with the sun-like magic of the Eye above them, though she couldn't tell which was the parasite. "Ysmir!" Brelyna thrashed and tried to kick the older elf off her. Ancano raised a hand that shown with magic over his head, his face a rictus of anger and glee. She couldn't tell what spell it was in the half-world overlaying her sight, but she read her end in his eyes. "Someone! Ysmir! _Augie!"_

A bright white light surged through the floor, passing right through Brelyna and into Ancano. The man shrieked, the spell flickering out as he flailed in confusion, screaming as he fell off her. She watched with disbelief as he rolled around on the floor of the Hall of the Elements, conflicting energies roiling within him before he began to blur.

"Brelyna!" Ysmir called, shaking her shoulder urgently. She turned to look at her friend, but she couldn't see her through the dragon that overlaid her form like fire. She was as bright as the Eye, as bright as her friend was dark. "Did he hurt you?" she asked frantically. Brelyna could only stare at her numbly, overwhelmed by all the brightness. Everything was too bright, and she could _feel_ everything. She felt veins burst in her eyes, the heat of blood coursing down her cheeks, heard them as a dozen little pops. Felt the scrape of her clothing over her, felt the caress of her hair and heard it hissing over her skin. The Eye was pulsing, getting brighter. Belatedly, she closed her eyes against the glare, realizing this was something no mortal was ever meant to see. The Staff slipped from her hand, and the world resolved itself again.

"That's it," she heard faintly over the sound of her own pulse, "I'm killing him. Miraak, get ready to shield that thing!"

Brelyna turned to watch the writhing Ancano through blurring vision that darkened by the moment. Ysmir was going to kill him. But she couldn't. Automatically, the Dark Elf reached out and grabbed her friend's arm as she rose. The dark purpose in her eyes made Ysmir barely recognizable, and for a moment the image of the dragon flashed in her mind. "Augie is in there," she managed.

.

* * *

.

Ysmir looked back at the tortured form of the Thalmor advisor. He was barely in this world anymore, his form losing more and more of its stability even as she watched, though Brelyna had snapped back into solidity the moment she dropped the Staff. Ysmir had been planning to throw him into the exposed center of the Eye, but…Well, she was almost out of magic anyway.

Grabbing the Staff, Ysmir directed it at the Eye, ignoring it when the level of magic inside her became almost instantly painful. She was Dragonborn; she would bear it. Turning to Ancano, she paused, thunderstruck. He was solid again, though nothing else was. Glancing around, her eyes widened. She could see for miles. Miraak as a hovering dragon of black fire, his form wreathed in the shadows of floating Apocryphan tentacles. To the southwest, like a blot on the world, was the World Eater himself, chained to triplet monoliths amongst the currents of time, the roots of all three tethered to the white distortion of the Time Wound.

And almost directly south, the pure golden blaze of Darva.

Ysmir really didn't have time to deal with Ancano or strange, failing realties right now.

_"Rii Vaas Zol!"_ she Shouted, the lights inside the Thalmor splitting apart at the command of her _thu'um._ One was sent tumbling, while the other raced toward her, through her, and merged with the Eye. The surge of energy raced through the Staff and into Ysmir, blinding her momentarily and sending her reeling. Pain assaulted her such as she had never encountered. She felt as if her body was trying to dissolve, but something, some opposite force, held it together. Her eyes opened briefly to the skies of Sovngarde, but there was no land beneath them, only the distant light of stars arrayed in a circle around a central point, to which several hubs of glowing veils and more stars reached together. Startled, she looked up, following the tall structure growing from that center point, seeing the various floors through the structural walls, the top covered with shining light. The light grew before she could really comprehend what exactly she was seeing, eclipsing everything else, until at last she heard her own heart beating, felt someone holding her, and opened dazzled eyes to see Miraak looking down at her with near-panic.

Ysmir smiled softly. "Hello," she managed.

"Augie!" she heard Brelyna cry frantically. Turning her head lightly, she spotted her friend leaning over what appeared to be a very pale Altmer or a Snow Elf, only he was in Thalmor robes and laying right were Ancano had been…

"A moment," the familiar voice of the Augur of Dunlain said, lacking the usual echoing overtones she had come to associate with him. "I…did not see this coming," he admitted, and the elf sat up, reaching up to touch his hairless head lightly, then examine his hand with a frown. He flexed his fingers uncertainly, clearly wondering why he was able to move them.

"Augie…" Brelyna sobbed, throwing her arms about the strange elf. "You're alive!"

He looked startled, then smiled, patting her awkwardly on the back. "I suppose I am."

Ysmir shook her head, sitting up shakily as Miraak refused to let go of her. "This day just keeps getting weirder," she complained.

"You disappeared," Miraak told her, and he looked absolutely ashen. "The Eye flashed and you just vanished."

"Well, I'm back, and I think I know where Darva is," she replied. She wasn't sure what that tower had been—hallucination probably—but she recognized Alduin from Augie's vision, and she didn't like the implication of seeing both the World Eater and her daughter. Augie had said he was trapped in the currents between time, but he'd seemed fairly close to reality to her. She wasn't entirely sure what the second golden glow that had formed right next to Darva had been, either, or what it meant to her daughter.

Miraak held her a little tighter, "Good, but we still need to find some way to stop this thing," he remarked, looking up at the Eye. It was calmer than before, but the shell was still in whirling pieces, and judging from the flickers inside, it was gearing up to pour out more anomalies. "If we don't, it might not matter where she is."

"Wonderful. I don't suppose anyone has any ideas?" she asked, not very hopefully.

"We'll take it from here," a new voice assured her, the air shimmering as a tall Altmer man in the golden robes of the Psijic Order coalesced from nothing. "We knew you could do it," Quaranir enthused, smiling so broadly at her that Miraak scowled at him and held her just a bit tighter.

Ysmir narrowed her eyes at him. "I didn't expect to see you again."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, well after nearly a decade we were starting to wonder if you'd ever return to finish what you started."

"I had other matters to attend to," she replied, not cowed in the least. If he was expecting an apology, he was going to be greatly disappointed.

"What are you going to do with it?" Miraak questioned, watching the monk suspiciously.

Quaranir examined him for a moment, as if there were something about Miraak that puzzled him. The Daedra spared a moment to be thankful that the rumored telepathy of the Psijics only extended to communicating with each other. "The Eye has become unstable," he finally answered, giving up as the energy from the Eye drowned out all other traces, "It cannot remain here, else it may destroy your College and this world." His gaze hardened, jaw clenching as he proclaimed, "It must be secured. Ancano's actions have proven that the world is not ready for such a thing."

"That didn't answer my question," Miraak informed him dryly, reading the thoughts that flickered across the elf's eyes.

"We will safeguard it…for now," was all the Psijic was willing to say on the matter. He returned his attention to Ysmir, smile once more in place. "Your victory here justifies our belief in you. You have proven yourself more than worthy to guide the College of Winterhold." Looking around, he raised his voice to address the other mages. "You now have the opportunity to maintain your College, and carry on with your lives."

"Wait, wait, wait," Ysmir interrupted, scrambling to her feet. Weariness made her clutch Miraak's shoulder for balance. "What do you mean, 'guide the College?'"

Two more Psijics appeared around the Eye, placing themselves very deliberately and looking to Quaranir from beneath the sheltering shadows of their cowls. Quaranir turned to face the unstable Artifact, raising his hands. With a last grin over his shoulder, he replied, "You have our gratitude, Arch-Mage." She gaped as the three monks began to glow, then fade rapidly, taking the Eye with them. At the last moment, Quaranir frowned, his hooded head turning to look at one comrade, then the other. "Wait—you're not—" she heard faintly before they were gone completely.

"You've done it!" Tolfdir enthused, ignoring Collette as she fussed over him. "The College is safe again!"

"But you're not!" the Restoration Master reminded him. "Now lay down or I'll hit you with a paralysis spell!"

"I knew you had it in you!" the mage continued, beaming at her as he lay back down. "I daresay the Psijics were right. There's no one more deserving to be Arch-Mage, in my opinion."

"Mirabelle!" Ysmir cried, eyes wide with dismay. "She's been Master Wizard for years!"

"And I'd rather keep the post, if it's all the same to you," the Master Wizard replied firmly, entering from the outside hall with the rest of the mages. She paused, looking down at where Brelyna and Augie still sat together on the floor. "Who's this?" she asked curiously.

"The Augur of Dunlain," Ysmir answered irritably. "Don't ask, because I have no idea how."

"I have a few," Miraak replied, watching the pair as Augie took Brelyna's face in his hands, looking critically into her eyes.

"And who's this?" Mirabelle asked again, this time examining Miraak. Something about the way she studied him made Ysmir irrationally angry, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"Meric of the Skaal," Faralda said, striding over. At Ysmir's incredulous look, she explained, "He introduced himself on the way up. I'm rather curious—the Skaal are fairly secretive about their magic, and I've never met one of their mages before. I hope to have the opportunity to speak more on the subject later. But never mind that for now—I third the notion. Congratulations, Arch-Mage."

For a few long moments, Ysmir couldn't speak at all; her mouth opening and closing on words that just wouldn't come. Miraak stifling a laugh finally prompted them to emerge. "No!" she cried at last. "There has to be someone more qualified!"

"You saved the College," Faralda pointed out, watching the pair with a small grin on her face. "And you attained your Mastery long ago."

"The Psijic Order itself praised you—picked you to save the world," Mirabelle added archly, then raised a single eyebrow in an expression Ysmir had learned to dread early in her apprenticeship. "As you've apparently done several times. It would do wonders for the College to have you on our list of Arch-Mages, Dragonborn."

"I—well—oh—_fine!"_ she huffed ungraciously, knowing she'd lost that argument as soon as the others started murmuring agreement and enthusing about recruitment. They wanted her on the list of Arch-Mages, she'd be on the list of bloody Arch-Mages. "My first act as Arch-Mage is to order that atrocious walkway repaired." She glanced around, seeing everyone looking quite pleased with themselves. "My second is to name Brelyna my successor. I'm retiring as Arch-Mage." She turned to the stunned Dark Elf, who was blinking as if she was having a difficult time seeing. "Congratulations, Arch-Mage. Have fun." Grabbing Miraak's hand, she started dragging him toward the door, "Let's go get our daughter."

**.**

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**So I hope you all have been having a very good month. With seventeen days left in the tax season (all you American readers that need to file, that's how many days you have. Deadline is April 18th), things have been super crazy. Oh, and I'm moving again. Just uprooting everything I've built these last two years and starting over, again. This was decided in the space of a week and I'm still reeling. I just hope I'm able to keep the chins. My student loans have been bothering me again so I have a very serious question for you all:**

**If I opened a , would you support me? It would be for art and writing, and basically making enough to pay off my student loans a month, so around five hundred dollars or so a month at the best, two sixty at the minimum. If it got going well enough I would probably even write a Dragon Kin sequel or Miraak's full backstory for members, but that is not a given. If you haven't seen my art, the icon for this story was done by me. I'm still researching this, especially how the money distribution and taxation is handled (if it got to the point of needing to be taxed, it might not be worth it after fines). Once I got my original works published, I would see if I could give discounts to my patrons, and you would get full resolutions of my artwork, and possible commission prizes. What do you guys think?**

**I've recently learned that the management in my district refer to me as Snow White or the Disney Princess. XD This is because I have hair down to my bum, Snow's coloring, and I'm always singing something. My manager says she half expects to see little blue birds flying around my head whenever she sees me. That really made my day. **

**I've been doing the OC Facts meme for Ysmir and Darva over on Deviantart. Do you all want me to post them here? I also have a poll there on who else to do 8 Facts for, not just OCs.**

**Don't forget to go check out Anniversary! Only a few people have looked at it so far, and I'm dying to know what you guys think. **

**I'm always willing to talk through messages or over on my Tumblr! Same name. I'm a fairly busy person, so I might not reply right away, but I promise I will next time I'm on!**

**Welcome, new followers and favorites! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! You guys bring a smile to my face! I really needed a blushing emote this chapter! **

**nightskye01: Thanks. *^_^* Sofie is still in the camp, though we will see her next chapter, and if things go as planned, we'll see Alesan, Aela, and Argis (wow, that's a lot of As) the chapter after that. If Darva is your favorite, you should check out my 8 Facts Journal over on Deviantart-it goes into some of what will happen to her after the story is finished.**

**Some Random dude: Thank you! I have been called the queen of cliffhangers on occasion, though I am fairly certain it was not meant as a compliment. XD I will be reposting the chapters with edits, and Dovahzul translations will be part of that. I originally tried to get it all in there as context clues, but as more and more characters started speaking Dovah, it got a lot harder. (Now I just have to figure the new translator out...)**

**scribblescribblescribble: I take that as a high compliment. :) I hope you didn't get too despondent waiting for this chapter.**

**Nargus: Darva hasn't escaped yet mostly because she can only whisper _thu'ums_ while on the potion, and even if she uses Bend Will on someone else, Delphine has the key. She did try calling her Bormah, but thought that he couldn't hear her-and over all the noise from the Eye, she was completely right. The interference from the Eye is dissipating, however, which means you can expect a Miraak shakedown in the next few chapters. :D**

**areslindragon: *^_^* Thank you so much! Ysmir didn't necessarily adopt all the kids-just my favorites. XD I admit to acting like an idiot over daughter and daddy dragon, too. I'm glad you're liking the tensions between Miraak and Ysmir-this has to be one of my favorite couples I've ever written. And Yay! A Turinmar fan! I love that old Dunmer so much! So much that when he was originally supposed to die, I couldn't do it. Dovahzul translations will be added slowly with the re-posts.**

**Roger509: Aside from me being really curious as to what you would have said otherwise, get some sleep! Don't be a cranky overworked person like me! **

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Don't. You're making my head hurt. No friendly pink Dagons.**

**Wynni: Esbern did! He's properly horrified, too. XD Game changer she will be, but she might surprise some people. Are you asking nicely about the chins or Dephine's overdue meeting with a precipice? Lol. Roxy does that. That dog is in my mother's chair whether or not anyone else is. My grandpa kicked her out of it and she sat in front of him looking absolutely _wounded_. And she's mostly Beagle, so you know how wounded those little hound dogs can managed to look. I would say it looks like the snow is gone, it being at least forty to fifty degrees this last week, but then we had flurries today. -_-**

**afeleon276: Ancano got exactly what he wanted-he's part of the Eye now. Fetcher. Rommy will have to be satisfied with what he did get. **

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**Next chapter: The Blades engage in some frantic packing and Sofie gets caught up in it. Ysmir discovers that vanishing from existence entirely really takes it out of you. Miraak discovers something else. **


	82. Chapter 82: Afterimage

Miraak stepped easily in front of her, hands on her shoulders to stop her forward progress. A concerned frown furrowed his brow, looking strange with his scales hidden by illusions. She found herself missing his draconic features, so much a part of him that his face looked naked without them. "Ysmir, wait. You were gone—you vanished from Mundus. I couldn't sense you at all. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she replied, surprised. She felt better than she had in a while, in fact. At least, that was what she thought until she took another step and nearly tipped over, Miraak's hands steadying her as he cursed. "Maybe a bit off-balance," she corrected herself. "And…woozy," she added as that made itself known, the walls starting to spin slightly. Stars danced before her vision, and a tower flashed in her mind's eye before slipping away.

_"Golah vahdin,"_ he muttered, helping her sit on the floor.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Collette asked from behind them. Ysmir glanced back to see her waggling a pair of gloved digits in front of Brelyna. The elven woman looked mildly panicked, and Ysmir felt her heart skip a beat. She'd thought the elf had just burst a few blood vessels—uncomfortable, but she'd had it happen a few times when she'd first started Shouting, and they eased after a while.

"I…I don't know," the Dunmer replied shakily, reaching up to scrub bloody tears off her cheeks. "Everything is just…shadows."

"Hmm," the Restoration Master hummed thoughtfully. "Well, it could be temporary, if we can restore the blood vessels. It will be a while before we know, though." Turning her head slightly, the middle-aged woman regarded the pale, bald elf supporting her patient skeptically. "And I don't even know where to begin with _you."_

"Nor I, madam," the Augur of Dunlain replied, still seeming a bit shaken. Having a body after so long must have been overwhelming. Ysmir dearly hoped it was his own body, and he wasn't somehow possessing Ancano's. His skin was paler than an Altmer's, but now that she had a better look at him, he wasn't the ice-white of Knight-Paladin Gelebor, either. She wasn't entirely sure what he was.

"What about you, Ysmir?" Faralda asked, kneeling down next to them and regarding her shrewdly, "Any vision problems?"

"The walls are wobbling," she complained before she could stop herself, feeling as if her energy were trickling out of her and through the stones beneath her feet. How was she supposed to go get Darva if the walls wouldn't hold still?

"Let's get them to Aren's quarters," Mirabelle put in, leaning against a magestaff as if she could use a rest as well. "The bed's big enough for all three of them." She graced Ysmir with a disapproving look, "We can decide who gets to keep the quarters later."

"I need to go to my house," Ysmir urged, looking back up at Miraak, her hand curling unconsciously in the front of his armor. "Heljarchen Hall, north of Whiterun. Where my other Dragon Priest masks are."

He frowned. "Why?" he asked, unable to read anything in her dazed eyes.

"I saw Alduin, Miraak. And Darva. I can't…I can't shake this feeling. My armor's there. I don't want to need it, but…" she shook her head, unable to pinpoint exactly where the flash of intuition was coming from. Windows sped by her in her mind's eye, giving her glimpses into the tower itself. She shook her head, trying to get the visions out of her mind. Damn, but it was like the afterimage of an Elder Scroll.

Faralda frowned. "You're a mage, Ysmir; you don't need armor."

Miraak held her closer, realizing she was trembling, but it wasn't in fear, exactly. It was part of it, but not all of it. Resting her forehead against his chest, her face hidden by her hair, she muttered something faintly, and he glanced at Faralda to see if she had heard. The elf merely continued to gaze at her former apprentice worriedly.

"Ysmir, you need to rest," she said, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair back as if soothing a child. Her hand recoiled as if she had touched a viper, surprise writ large in her frame. Ysmir's teeth were gritted, her eyes narrowed in hate, her body vibrating with the need to vanquish, to rend her foes and leave them in ruins behind her.

"Delphine's done…something," she ground out. "Whatever it was drew Alduin closer to reemergence. That stupid harpy is bringing that fiend out of hibernation, and Darva is right in the middle of it." She looked up, gaze locking on his. There was fury in her he'd never seen before, a cold fury so unlike her usual passion it gave him pause. "The armor was my mother's. I wore it when I killed him the first time." Her eyes narrowed with determination, "And I'll wear it when I kill him again."

Miraak nodded, sliding his arm under her legs to lift her up. For once, she didn't protest. "Tell Brelyna I'm sorry, but I have to go," Ysmir told Faralda. "I'll return when I can."

The mage nodded, still looking uncertain, as if she wasn't really sure who Ysmir was anymore. "Faloniril?" she said, perhaps unwisely. Ysmir's eyes snapped to hers, gaze sharp and predatory. The elf swallowed. "Ancano said you were…is it..." she couldn't make herself ask.

The Dragonborn looked ahead. "That man is no family of mine," she stated, "and I would appreciate if this was the last you spoke of it."

"I have no wish to delve into that Bloodline's business," the woman replied with a shudder. Miraak read the truth of that in her eyes.

Turning, he carried Ysmir out of the College, opening a portal as soon as they were out of sight, though it was still difficult with the amount of ambient Aetherial energy floating about. The Last Dragonborn felt frightfully light in his arms, as if her substance had been spun out and was only now reassembling itself, tugging the threads of her body and soul together by willpower alone. He could all but see them, stretching out to some place beyond both Oblivion and Aetherius, slowly coiling back in.

By the time he found the house, drawn by the energy of the Dragon Priest masks, all the fight seemed to have abandoned her, leaving her near-fainting in his grasp. She banged her hand uselessly against his breastplate in frustration, cursing in Aldmeris, Common, and even Dovahzul. "I have potions here," she said, as much to herself as him, "I'll see how I feel afterwards."

"Your friend went blind, Ysmir," he told her gently, following the lines of the other house and climbing to the bedroom on the second floor. A fine layer of dust (not to mention the heavy locks and warding enchantments) made encountering another steward unlikely. "Your mentor's heart almost gave out. We don't know what the Eye might have done to you." He sighed as she shot out a burst of healing, though it did seem to be tucking the stray edges of her being back into place.

"Don't put me on the bed," she said sharply when he was about to do just that. Something in her voice compelled him to place her on her feet, where she wobbled a moment before going to a wardrobe and collecting some potions, downing them one after another. "I'm not completely stupid—I know I have to rest. Unless you have some sort of Daedric all-heal spell?" she glanced at him, making it a question.

"If I did I already would have used it," he assured her, hating seeing her so weakened.

She nodded, making her quavering way to the back of the house. Pulling the sheet off an Alchemy Table, she turned to a cupboard, caught herself when she overbalanced, and broke the seal of a preservation enchantment. "I need to make a few potions," she told him. "I'll be steady enough until I can get them finished. Darva was directly south of the College, but I'm not sure exactly how far. Not into Riften hold, I don't think, but that still leaves a lot of territory."

"I'll see if I can get a better lock on her, then," he replied, seeing where she was going. Settling himself in a chair outside the small room, he pulled off his helmet and let the illusions on his features go. After another moment or two to determine if his lover really was able to stay on her feet, he quieted his mind and sent his thoughts questing out through the dispersing fog of the Eye's energy.

.

* * *

.

Sofie watched bemusedly as everyone rushed around her, packing up half the camp. Fjotli literally skidded to a halt to stare at her a moment, then instructed her to gather her things.

"Your parents were Kynareth worshipers, right?" she asked, sounding harried. "Would you like to play nurse?" she continued without waiting for an answer. That was a good thing, if Sofie was honest—she was terrible at lying.

Bundling up her basket with the taproots, sap, and extra clothes—including a few very large shirts gifted to her by various Blades—Sofie followed Fjotli away from her tent and into the Eldergleam Sanctuary. "You aren't going to like what they did with the place," the woman warned her, but it wasn't enough to cushion the girl from the sight of the ravaged Sanctuary. Sofie slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and rapidly filling with tears. At least the tree was unharmed. A brief glow amongst the roots proved to be the last Spriggan moving around, watching them warily.

It took her a full minute to notice the dragon.

_"Gein Kogaan?"_ a voice as beautiful as the Eldergleam drew her gaze down from the branches above. Sofie gaped at the golden dragon peering at her over the edge of a trap, wings clearly staked to the ground. Sofie thought that she must be in unbelievable pain, but her bearing was of relief. "I had thought you all killed. But you are young, are you not? Just a _kiir."_

Fjotli grabbed her arm when she started forward, but her grip was not tight and she released the girl after she leveled her with an agonized look. There didn't seem to be anyone left in the Sanctuary. Everyone must have ascended to the surface in preparation for departing. Guiding her carefully around the dragon, the Nord woman led her to a bedroll some distance away, a young woman with blond hair and pretty features bundled up in it.

"Jori!" Sofie cried, shocked to see the nice young Blade injured. Rushing to her side, she skidded to her knees, pulling back the furs to see the damage before hissing in a breath of dismay. "What happened?" she demanded of her guide, not bothering to hide her consternation.

"The Grand Mistress decided she was a traitor and enacted punishment," Fjotli revealed, sinking onto the ground on the other side of the bedroll, staring at the shadows shrouding the cavern walls. For a moment, the only sounds were the trickle of the muddied stream and the hiss of Jori's labored breathing. "This…this isn't the Blades I joined. They were honorable. They didn't deal with necromancy, they didn't kill innocent worshipers, and they didn't kidnap children."

"There was some blisterwort and hanging moss in the tunnel on the way in here," Sofie said rather than replying, examining the wound in Jori's side. "I need them."

Fjotli gave her a quizzical glance, but rose and walked off to fetch them. The dragon continued to watch her curiously. "You are not a priestess, are you?" she asked after a moment.

"No." Sofie frowned. "I…I just like helping people," she revealed.

"You could be, you know," the dragon said soothingly, sensing her unease. "I think you would be a very good one."

The girl shrugged, mind on the task before her to the extent of all else, picking up a wadded bandage from the pile that had been dumped unceremoniously next to her patient and dabbing the sweat from her forehead. "I'm no one important," she muttered, feeling shy and sad and lonely. Tears welled in her eyes. "I never should have left home."

"The most important journeys are seldom comfortable or comforting," the dragon replied, much to her surprise. Sofie glanced up into the bright blue eyes of the dragon; got caught in them. "I, too, am a priestess of a sort."

"A dragon priestess?" Sofie asked, unable to fathom such a thing. "Like…like Paarthurnax is a monk?"

The dragon blinked. "You know my mate? He is a _monk?_ How long have I been dead, exactly?" that last part was so quiet Sofie suspected the question was rhetorical, but she knew the answer, so she gave it anyway.

"Dragons have been dead for at least two, maybe three eras," she revealed. "Well, most of them. They used to be worshiped, but that stopped in the Dragon War, sometime before recorded history started. Then Reman Cyrodiil started wiping them out in the First Era. Except for a few, like Paarthurnax, who didn't make themselves obvious. When did you die?" she asked curiously, peering intently at Jori. The wound was forming green pus—a sure sign of poison. Someone really hadn't wanted Jori getting back up again. That was alright: Sofie had drawn Frostbite venom out of a deer's blood before, she could pull this out of Jori's veins.

Ysmir was still pestering her to explain how exactly she did that, but honestly, Sofie wasn't sure. Most of what she did was by instinct. Settling herself, she put one hand on Jori's forehead and the other over her abdomen, focusing on the rushing current of her blood, just as she could feel the sap moving in the Eldergleam. The dragon seemed to sense her concentration shifting, and was silent. Sofie wasn't sure how long she worked, syphoning poison until her magicka ran out, then cleaning the wound of the liquid seeping from it, then returning to her healing. Fjotli returned to watch her, fascinated. By the time the amount of poison was non-lethal, Sofie was exhausted. Her companion powdered the blisterwort for her, crumbling the crushed mushroom over the wound, then packing it with clean moss before bandaging it. Sofie would have to heal it in the morning, after a long rest.

"Half the camp went home today; the rest here are meant to watch the dragon. The Grand Mistress has taken the other quarter of the camp with her," Fjotli told her when she asked where everyone was. "She's on a campaign against an ancient dragon. The one the Dragonborn was supposed to slay, but she defected instead."

Suddenly not feeling sleepy, Sofie jerked upright, crying, "She's going to kill Grandda Paarthurnax?"

Fjotli stared at her for a long moment. "Gran…Grandda? Don't tell me…Are you one of the Dragonborn's too?"

"That word," the dragon interjected as Sofie nodded guiltily and Fjotli cursed, "What does it mean?"

"Dragonborn are people born with the souls of dragons," Sofie informed her, since Fjotli didn't appear to want to speak with the dragon. The large blue eyes widened in recognition. "A lot of them turn out to be dragonslayers, or emperors. My adoptive mother is one. She killed Alduin."

"She…killed him?" the dragon asked, amazed. "But…that was my Meric's task."

Sofie shrugged. "I don't know who Meric is, but my momma killed Alduin."

The dragon was silent for a long moment. "The other _kiir,_ the other little girl. Who was she?"

"Darva is my little sister," Sofie replied when Fjotli remained stubbornly quiet. "She's not adopted—Mother actually gave birth to her, right after she adopted me. She doesn't love us any different, though. Darva is Dragonborn like Mother."

"So it is possible she is not my Meric's," the dragon said, sounding disappointed. "No, she looks so like him…but it has been too long. Many ages. _Dii krosis joor kiir lingrah dilon."_ There was a movement much like a wince as she thoughtlessly moved one of her wings, but after a deep breath the tranquil air about her returned, as if she were blocking out the pain through sheer will. Sorrow remained in her eyes, as if the realization of time had saddened her. _"Kiir,_ I would know your name."

"Sofie," the girl replied, giving a little half-curtsy from her seated position. "Sofie Dragonsdatter."

The dragon inclined her head, "I am Lovaasunslaadhahnu, called The First Daughter of Kyne. I once had a student I believe was one Dragonborn. He was the first such we had ever seen. This became common?"

Sofie shook her head, glancing at Fjotli. Since seeing her talk to that Spriggan, the woman had been kind but uneasy around her. Now her admonishing gaze seemed to prompt something within her. The woman sighed in resignation and finally turned to face the dragon. "All right. Let me tell you of the various Dragonborn," she began.

.

* * *

.

In the manor home deep in the wilds, the Last Dragonborn slept, her body becoming more solid with every breath. The table beside her supported several potion bottles, many the standard ones found elsewhere in Skyrim, some—like the cure for magical contamination—not so common. On the bed next to her, his back up against the wall, the First Dragonborn sat, his mind far adrift from his body, searching for the daughter he thought he had felt briefly while too close to the Eye to do any good. East of the Throat of the World her presence had vanished again, muted to a dull trace too elusive to really pinpoint.

He ventured further, near a collection of minds he had initially taken for a Stormcloak camp. He wondered briefly if they knew the former holy ground right beneath their boots, readying himself to move on when something within the weakened sphere of the Aedric blessing around the site flared.

Miraak's eyes shot open as he jerked, violently enough to wake Ysmir. She glanced into his pitch black eyes and felt her heart race. "What did you find?" she asked urgently, watching his hands tighten on the dragon helmet until his fingers dented the metal. "Miraak?"

The First Dragonborn vanished from the bed in a swirl of ink, leaving the Last Dragonborn staring in shock at the demolished pieces of every other piece of furniture in the room, shattered against the walls.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**_"Golah vahdin." _Stubborn woman.**

**_"Gein Kogaan?" _One Blessed? Refers to those called to serve a god, though not necessarily a priest or priestess.**

**_"kiir"_ Child**

**_Dii krosis joor kiir lingrah dilon." _My poor mortal child is long dead.**

**.**

**.**

**Hi, guys. Long time no update. This month has been really, really busy. I'm unemployed again thanks to the end of tax season, the end of which I was signed up to work a lot of hours. The last day we had a Thank God It's Over Party after closing, and my former boss handed out pudding shots. I highly doubt I will ever have a boss this awesome again. After that we immediately went up north for a wake, which was very sad but was also kind of an Irish wake with food rather than drinking. One of our tank filters crapped out the day we were supposed to go up, so we didn't leave until night while Matt hooked up the new filter. We finally caved and just bought a three hundred gallon filter, so it kind of looks like we have a mini shop vac sitting under our turtle tank. We weren't sure we wouldn't come home to find half the house flooded, because when something goes drastically wrong with that stuff, it's usually in the first few hours. A few interesting incidents happened on the way home, as well. The scariest of which was being about twenty feet away from being in a car accident. Matt was driving, thank God, because all I did was hold on for dear life and scream. Turns out I was the only one that actually saw what happened, though, so I got to give my first witness statement. Everyone is alright, but it was really scary. I don't think the officer was really prepared for me to whip out my phone and start drawing a diagram of what happened for him, either. We didn't get back to the house until after five, but thankfully it wasn't flooded.**

**We've started cleaning and gutting the house for our move. I haven't packed anything, because I really have had no motivation this week. All I really want to do is curl up and sleep. Yesterday I finally started cleaning my bathroom and doing some serious amounts of laundry, then randomly wrote the next chapter. It's still rather raw, but the first draft is done.**

**My birthday is on Saturday. I don't know if I want to celebrate or just forget I got a year older. I will probably celebrate, because cake.**

**Oh, and I posted 8 Facts memes for Ysmir, Miraak, Darva, Rommulus, and the Dovahkiirre on my Deviantart! I can't post them here, because they're not stories, just facts, but if you want to read them, Ysmir's mostly covers her time before Beginnings, Miraak's covers his time as a Dragon Priest, Rommy's time as the Champion of Cyrodiil, and Darva's and the Dovahkiirre's (band name, anyone?) covers what will happen to them post-story. Lots of spoilers there. My name is the same here as there. If you want to ask questions about any of it, I tend to go on long tangents in Deviantart comments. Other projects include a new picture of Ysmir for Masterless's crossover story for our two DBs, a picture of Ysmir as a Dragon Priest (because why not), Adult Darva, and another prequel of Ysmir's life in the Thalmor that is turning out to be so depressing I'm appalled at myself. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! Over 55,000 views, guys! Welcome, new followers and favorites!**

**scribblescribblescribble: I laughed so hard when I went to answer the reviews and you had just posted that. I miss being able to post every week probably as much as you miss it. Here's the new chapter. I hope you like it. :)**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: I have two possible Listeners in mind. ;) Sadly, Miraak is not one of them. XD**

**nightskye01: Thank you. I always thought the game didn't show the devastating power that thing had enough. I mean, we're told that it can destroy the world, but it just hovers there making _wubwubwub_ noises. What made you think Rommy and Sam weren't there?**

**Nargus: The implications are many. Worst case scenario-Darva has to face Alduin someday. Best case scenario-Alduin is a hovering creep and everyone gets on with their lives. **

**afeleon276: That is Darva's secret talent-making bad things good. Also, making boiled cream treats vanish.**

**Wynni: Ayleid, actually. XD Being a white light for so long had a bit of a bleaching effect. Miraak always had a nurturing side, it just mostly manifested in the "kill the thing trying to kill my loved ones" sense. Dragon Priests were not known for being overly sentimental. Miraak learned to show he cared by spilling the blood of his friends' enemies. Polar vortex in Michigan basically means "Better buy a lot of bread and leave an hour early for work." It's a lot of snow and cold. Thanks a lot, Canada. **

**.**

**Next time: There is no kill like overkill. **


	83. Chapter 83: Ashes and Ink

Aela watched Argis pack his supplies, her arm around Alesan as the boy glanced from the remaining Blades back to the housecarl. They were all tucked into the rocky outcropping they had been spying on the Blades from, using Aela's enhanced sight and a spyglass taken from the Redguard Blade slumped unconscious in the corner of their camp. He'd finally broken out of whatever stupor he had been in yesterday, and they'd been forced to gag him, then resorted to pouring the bandit's wine down his throat when he refused to be still. Aela didn't know what being passed-out drunk for so long would do to a person, but it hadn't particularly seemed to affect Torvar. She hoped the man was of similar constitution.

Her nails bit into the fabric of her gauntlet until she forced her hands to unclench. After more than a week, a change in the camp. Aela was accustomed to waiting out the prey, but knowing that she must do nothing but watch, unable to engage her foe in battle, was wearing on her nerves. They had been arguing for some time about what their next move would be—they couldn't watch the Blades forever—when the ground had shook, a storm forming briefly overhead before dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Shortly after that, the Blades had started to move.

"I can still track them from here if you send word to Jorrvaskr," she said softly.

Argis shook his head. "There's too much we don't know," he argued, barely glancing up. "We don't know which group has the girls. The largest group was taking the wagons—they're probably heading back to their base at Sky Haven Temple, so we at least know where they can be found. We don't know where the ones that left this morning are going, however, and if they have Darva or Sofie they could be going into hiding with them."

"I should go," Aela urged, not entirely able to keep the anxiety out of her voice. "I can keep out of sight much better than you can, and catching their trail would be easy for me."

He stopped, his one blue eye examining her for a moment. "You have a much better chance of getting Alesan away if they discover this spot," he said firmly. "The children should be our top priority right now."

"If they catch you, they will probably kill you," she said baldly, making the boy flinch.

"If they catch me, I'll identify myself and surrender. They sought to capture Sofie's Khajiit friend, so they don't seem to want to kill people if they can help it," Argis declared, grabbing a few of the storage-wrinkled apples they had swiped from the bandit's fort when their supplies ran low.

"They murdered a Dunmer pilgrim right in front of a couple of children!" she argued, finally losing her cool. "I am much better suited for this mission."

Argis reached out and pulled her head forward, giving her a firm kiss that only made her feel worse. Skjor had done that, the night he went out to face the Silver Hand. "If they don't show any sign of moving in three days, head to Jorrvaskr. I'll meet you there, and we can all decide what to do. With any luck, Ysmir and the twins will be back, and we'll have more than doubled our odds."

She nodded, closing her eyes. "If you're not there when I get there, I'm coming after you," she promised. She wouldn't let another one go—she didn't know where things would end up with Argis, but she'd be damned if she never found out. The Huntress wouldn't watch another man she cared about die, not if it was in her power to stop it. However, there was little she could do with Alesan depending on them. The boy wasn't old enough or skilled enough for such a venture, and Argis was right: She had the best chance of getting them both out if the Blades discovered them.

Alesan jerked upright, squinting at the camp. "Someone's out there."

Aela and Argis exchanged glances before sidling up to the rocks, peering out at the mass of Blades. They boiled out of their tents, all heading towards the man standing at the edge of their camp, simply observing, hands curled into fists at his sides. He wore strange, high-quality armor carved with dragons, and as the wind lifted the short wheaten hair she saw that the left side of his face was wreathed in scales.

Her mouth dropped open in a gasp, and her companions glanced from her to the intruder, perplexed.

The man who must be the First Dragonborn shifted his gaze over the assembled Blades, their demands that he identify himself echoing faintly off the hard-packed earth and mineral deposits of the Aalto. Aela's Blood-enhanced hearing could make out every word, but she reached out and placed a hand over the mouths of the ones beside her, urging them to silence. Argis reached up and started to push her hand away before his eyes widened, fingers resting lightly over the racing pulse in her wrist. Frowning, his head jerked sharply back to the scene.

Another tense minute passed, the Blades' demands tapering off as they realized that the trespasser had no intention of answering them. They milled for a moment, confused and unnerved. Finally, one lost his patience completely. Face a mask out outrage, the man lunged, bringing his sword around to cleave at the Dragonborn's shoulder. Miraak's hand shot out, battering the weapon away with the back of his gauntlet, his other hand darting forward like a serpent and seizing the man's neck, raising him from the ground as if he weighed no more than a tuff of tundra cotton. Everyone paused in that moment, surprised. The pits of his eyes turned back to them over his shoulder, cold, assessing.

"I hear you have my daughter."

His voice rolled over the distance like the rumble of distant thunder, raising the hair on the back of her neck. The calm tone belied the deep fury she sensed lurking just beneath the surface. A ripple of uncertainty passed through the assembled Blades as they surrounded him, even their dull human instincts able to tell something was very off about the man before them.

A Dunmer stepped forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. As far as Aela was able to tell, his eyes were on his trapped comrade. "I don't know who you are, sera, but I can assure you that this must be some sort of misunderstanding. We had two young girls here, yes, but both their parents were accounted for."

Miraak regarded him for a long moment, unmoving. Then the hand holding the man began to smolder. Agonized screams filled the air with oily black smoke while the Blades rushed as one, trying to save the doomed man only to stumble back from the wall of writhing tentacles that bloomed momentarily between them. Smoke rolled off their armor wherever a slippery limb managed to grasp, not rising from the spots but oozing downward, the miasma behaving more liquid than mist, puddling on the ground and burning through their boots. Between the roiling fog at his feet and the smoke still rising from his hand, the First Dragonborn was cloaked in curls of vapor that reached out to grasp at anyone coming too close. Aela belatedly reached out and covered Alesan's ears, turning his horrified face from the scene.

Blades toppled backward, bowled over by the body Miraak threw at them, cutting the mists. "I have no wish to be delayed here, elf," the First Dragonborn declared, unmistakable menace in his deep voice. "Do not misunderstand my intent: I am here to kill you. The only choice left to you is whether you experience it as a second or a year."

Another Blade rushed him, raising his sword to impale his opponent. Miraak stepped aside, grabbing the man's arm as he passed. Smoke rose from inside the man's armor, his veins turning black beneath his skin; a single strangled scream left his throat before his flesh dissolved into papery ash, the whole of it collapsing in on itself at the Daedra's feet, curls of smoke rushing in to fill the hollow breastplate. Those around them gaped in denial, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed. "He lived it as a year," he rumbled darkly.

Two more threw themselves at him in rage. Miraak whirled with them, throwing them passed him using nothing but his hands. Their empty armor skidded into the mass of Blades surrounding them, trailing soot. "You are trying my patience," the look he speared them made them recoil, his eyes black as onyx and glittering with malice. "I shall give you one more chance to decide. Tell me where Darva is."

"We shall never aid you, demon!" a Nord cried, lifting his warhammer.

_"Wuld!"_ Blades were cast to the side as Miraak moved, his hand coming up to clutch the throat of the foolhardy Nord, only to pause, seeming to regard him. "You think you are protecting her from me?" he asked, sounding interested. "The little Dragonborn, so like her mother…" he mused, as if he were reading something in the man's face. His brows furrowed in a frown. "You know her mother." The statement rimmed the edges of the man's helmet with ice. "Tell me, are there many here who owe her their lives?" He glanced over the assembled Blades, most of who were milling in confusion, too frightened or too shocked to attack. A few were muttering to themselves, frantic as they recognized Miraak's use of the Voice.

"Thorald…" she gasped, finally realizing why the Nord looked so familiar. Argis glanced over at her, wide-eyed at what he beheld. "He's Eorlund's son. Ysmir helped his brother liberate him from a Thalmor prison, then the pair of them joined the Blades at her urging."

"How many of you are there?" the Daedra's voice snapped out, tight with renewed fury. "You who would call her friend then kidnap her child?"

Thorald was turning purple, gasping for breath. Blackness crept up his veins toward his eyes from where the First Dragonborn's gauntlet touched his skin. Miraak relaxed his grip slightly, apparently wanting an actual answer. "Ysmir…will return to us," he wheezed. "Dragons…are…evil…must be…slain."

Miraak snarled, his face filled with such ferocity Aela whimpered. "You fools. Ysmir _is_ a dragon."

Whirling, he tossed the man into the largest group of Blades, knocking them all to the ground. Aela heard bones breaking shortly before the entire group began to smoke, the churning plume obscuring them in moments. Something seemed to snap inside the Dragonborn in the same instant the Blades found their courage, charging him in semi-formation that would have overwhelmed a regular man. Miraak adjusted his stance slightly, glaring at them. _"Tiid Klo Ul!"_ he Shouted, his _thu'um_ ringing across the distance between them and rising a cloud of dust that hovered in the air as if frozen.

Aela could barely make out what was happening, squinting through the haze. Argis yanked out the spyglass their Blade captive had carried, keeping careful watch.

Miraak was a blur grabbing sword blades and limbs alike, the sharpened edges doing no more damage than if they had been sheathed. He never drew the sword at his side or the staff along his back, but danced among them, his fluid movements completely different from Ysmir, but strangely reminiscent in their effortlessness. He flowed through them without them landing a single blow as they struggled to compensate for his slowed time. Wherever he touched started to smoke, leaving screaming men and women falling to ash in his wake. From the expressions on their faces, Aela had no doubt he had spoken truth about their agony seeming to last a year.

Time caught up with everyone, though, and even Miraak's Shout couldn't last forever. Miraak slowed at the edge of the crowd of warriors, a trail of carnage in his wake. A Breton in Blades' robes sent a rolling wave of lightning over him, both hands out and face creased with effort. A Wall of Storms formed around Miraak, pillars of lightning racing skyward like a cage. The mage was matched by an Imperial woman on the other side of the group, firing Ice Spears in rapid succession. The First Dragonborn vanished in a cloud of storm and ice shards.

Four more mages joined, heartened by their apparent success. Two more Bretons and a Wood Elf sent lightning of their own flowing into the rising cloud, while a Dunmer sent a pair of Familiars into the mists. Several others followed up with their own non-magical contribution; volley after volley of arrows.

The pair of summoned wolves raced back out to stand behind their castor, regarding the cloud warily. Aela's mouth dried, reading the language of their spectral bodies, and the Dunmer frowned down at them, but the rest of the Blades seemed to take their reappearance as a good sign, lowering bows and letting their spells taper off. For a few seconds they simply waited for the storm mist to dissipate.

A long form broke through the fog, arching out to cut through the first rank of watchers. The Breton that had first attacked him was torn completely in half, though most of the others were merely slashed, dark liquid bubbling from the rents in their armor, eating through it like acid. Screaming once more rang across the plain as they writhed, trying to remove the poisoned armor before it killed them. Most of them failed.

Striding from the smoking crater he had been standing in, the Daedra slowly sheathed his sword as it retracted back into shape, hands falling to hang loosely at his side. He watched them, as if daring them to come at him again.

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

"Bastard!" a Nord man yelled, Warcry lacing his voice as he charged. Miraak pulled the staff from his back, using it to deflect the sword upwards and shove the man aside. A blonde girl bearing a strong resemblance to the man tried to use the opportunity to run him through, only to have the First Dragonborn grab her wrist, angling her strike into her comrade. At her scream of terror and grief he paused for a bare moment before he jerked his hand, shattering her wrist and bringing the end of the staff around to take her knee as well. The girl tumbled, but remained on the ground, neither she nor her likely kinsman dissolving into ash.

Taking her bloodied sword, Miraak examined it a moment before tossing it aside, drawing his own blade and sending it arching into the scattered remains of the demoralized company around him. Poison splattered across everything it hit, eating through the blued steel of the Blades' armor to find flesh, melting it into dust.

"Divines…" Argis muttered, staring in absolute horror. "He's slaughtering them."

"Not all of them," Aela noted, almost as disturbed by that as the actual massacre. Though the First Dragonborn claimed to be there to kill every Blade, a very few he simply tossed aside. Thorald lumbered shakily to his knees, coated in the oily ash, unable to do more than watch as his fellows died.

Miraak pushed another crumbling corpse aside, glancing over his shoulder at the last advancing charge of Blades. The ones in front held wards to protect their fellows from his touch, the ones behind shoving spears and dai-katanas through the gaps in the magical shields. Their opponent narrowed his eyes before turning to face them fully. _"Yol Toor Shul!" _

Fire erupted from the First Dragonborn's _thu'um_, fanning out to engulf the group. Wards and shields shattered with the impact, those in back screaming in surprise as the edges of flame gave birth to fire drakes, the hissing spirits turning to devour them as surely as the flame they emerged from.

The young woman he had tossed aside struggled to rise on her injured leg. Miraak strode over and lifted her by her hair, tossing her to Thorald. He glanced briefly at her kinsman before moving on. Ignoring the conflagration of screaming warriors, he collected those only injured on the battlefield, dropping them with the others with complete disregard for anything save that they didn't die. Aela watched, holding a trembling Alesan to her, face pressed against her shoulder so he wouldn't try to look again. Her hands shook with the conflicting emotions within her. The Nord in her was appalled. Honor demanded this man, who so clearly had no regard for his opponents, either as warriors or as people, be shown the error of his ways. The wolf knew it was outmatched, and cowered within her for the first time in her life. Even almost being dropped to her death by Sheogorath hadn't had this effect on the Beast within her. Normally, it was as filled with bravado as the Nord, but now the Nord wanted to fight, and the wolf longed to flee.

The friend wanted to go find Ysmir and shake her until her teeth rattled, and demand to know what on Nirn the woman had been _thinking,_ having a child with this man. She could smell the rage on him from where they hid, yet he moved with such purposeful calm that she wasn't sure someone without Beastblood could sense his deadly intent.

Just under a dozen people huddled together when he was done, waving a hand negligently at the bonfire. The screaming abruptly stopped, and the whole thing collapsed, leaving charred metal and little else. Black eyes studied the group for a long moment as the young woman sobbed, but she was hardly the least composed. One man sat on the ground and simply stared. Aela could smell urine and bile mingling with ash and ink and the tang of hot metal.

"What do you want?" Thorald demanded hoarsely, holding his weeping shield sister. "If you are going to kill us, be done with it!"

Miraak tilted his head, his featureless eyes leeching all humanity from the idle gesture. "Your lives are not mine to take," he supplied, much to everyone's shock. "I am not the one you betrayed. You have wronged me and mine, however, so I shall make use of you for now."

Before they could fully process that to ask what he meant, Miraak Shouted, the sound reverberating off the cliffs and whispering over Aela's mind. She felt…something. A longing to stand, reveal herself and walk to him, to serve her master, to lie before him and expose her neck to the superior predator. Surprise flickered through her, and it took her a moment after the whispering receded to realize that it wasn't her—the feelings were from outside herself. The wolf within snarled, but was too aware that it could not face a dragon alone for it to come out.

"Aela!" Alesan said frantically, shaking her arm, "Aela, he's looking at us!"

"I know you are there," he called softly, his voice a tired caress of sound. His anger seemed to have abated for the moment. "Come out."

Grey eyes flickered over the remaining Blades, standing listlessly before their foe. Glancing back to Argis, she caught his wide eyes, one sky blue, one milky white. She'd never gotten a chance to ask about that. "Stay here," she said, but he shook his head stubbornly.

"I'm not letting you go out there alone!" he insisted.

It took them both a moment of staring at each other to realize Alesan had already started climbing from the rocks, the scraping and tumble of pebbles from his passage breaking their impasse. The boy walked carefully toward the First Dragonborn as the adults cursed, having to take the improvised path down, the slight hand and footholds the boy had used not suitable for adults.

Alesan stopped ten paces from the man just as they reached the plain, running for all they were worth.

.

* * *

.

Miraak considered the boy a moment, the child clearly doing the same to him. Redguard, about twice as old as Darva, and all but shaking in his boots after what he had just seen. Frankly, he was amazed the child had faced him at all, let alone rushed out without the adults. Taking a moment to concentrate, he forced his eyes back to their normal state just in time for the boy to find enough courage to look up.

Dark brown eyes met his. "You're really Darva's pa?" he asked, the faint trembling of his body reflected in the quaver of the words.

Miraak nodded slowly, a little taken aback by the question. Images, memories, and emotions flickered in the boy's eyes. He'd lost his own father when he was even younger than Darva. He'd been a cabin boy on a ship, his first voyage. He'd been too young for it, but his mother hadn't been able to care for him anymore. His father was a bilge rat. Someday, he'd told his eager son, he'd be able to dance up and down the lines as nimbly as he could. Then his father had slipped. It had been storming, the ship was tossing, and part of the railing had splintered. A piece of wood as large as the man's hand embedded itself in his thigh. He'd pulled it out, bandaged it, and went on working.

The limb had started to rot.

Alesan and his father had been left at Dawnstar to rest and recover after the ship's leechman had removed the leg, but Dawnstar wasn't restful. Nightmares plagued the town. Alesan's father couldn't rest, couldn't heal. He'd been left alone. For weeks he had been on his own, suffering through nights and days that were equally as miserable, as hopeless.

Perhaps Darva had been right about her siblings. This one, at least, was not so different from him. Left alone and helpless, until he'd been taken in by a dragon.

"You shouldn't use the _thu'um_ that way," the boy told him, voice cracking slightly.

Scales shifted as his brows rose. "Oh?" he prompted curiously.

"They could barely fight back," the boy insisted, hands curling into fists. "They weren't all bad people, just misled people. You shouldn't have killed them like that, and you definitely shouldn't have used a gift like the Voice to do it." It wasn't just fear he was shaking with, Miraak realized, it was conviction.

"Sometimes the only recourse for someone's actions is violence," the former Dragon Priest told the boy, finding himself strangely intrigued.

Alesan shook his head, "Maybe, sometimes. But that shouldn't be for just one person to decide. Just because you're powerful doesn't mean you're right."

Miraak actually gave a slight, wry smile before shaking his head in faint disbelief. "What an age I've emerged in," he mused to himself.

"Alesan!" the woman whose mind he'd brushed against reached them at last, thrusting the boy behind her and glaring daggers at him. The look in her eyes reminded him of Gormlaith when she was feeling particularly ready for a fight. This one apparently had more control, for she restrained herself to glaring as the man caught up, his heavy armor weighing him down.

"Auntie Aela, he's Darva's pa," Alesan protested, and despite everything, despite being pretty sure Miraak wasn't a good person, despite loving the Papas and his life as the Dragonborn's son, there was longing there, a wistful yearning for the father he'd lost.

Miraak had had two mothers, one human and one dragon, but he'd never had a father.

"You are Aela?" he asked the woman. She nodded curtly and he turned his gaze to the man, reading him. "And Argis. A housecarl. You led men before being sworn to that service," he stated, reading the past written there and realizing that the Jarl of the Reach was a bigger fool than he'd initially thought, taking this man out of service. He gestured to the Blades now under his thrall. "I have instructed them to guard this place until Ysmir comes and decides how to punish their betrayal. Knowing her, it will be hopelessly lenient, but that is not for me to decide. They will need someone to oversee them until that happens."

The pair glanced at each other, taken aback. Alesan was studying the enthralled Blades with a shiver.

"I will give you a few moments to discuss it amongst yourselves," he said. He'd already stolen the knowledge that Darva was no longer there, but this "Grand Mistress" of theirs was secretive, and had not divulged where exactly they were going. There were some memories of reference to an "oldest enemy," but not where the dragon dwelled. Miraak had a good idea who they were referring to, however. It would be a long while before they arrived, and he needed to fetch Ysmir first. She would be angry enough that he had left in the manner he had, though his rage had gotten the best of him.

Besides, he didn't want even Ysmir around if what he'd sensed was correct.

**.**

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**So, this was supposed to be up about two weeks ago, but I have been embroiled in the move from hell. I won't go much into it other than that the secretary at our old place looked up something wrong, and we suddenly had less than a month to be out of the house, rather than until the end of June. We've lost the male of our angelfish pair, my silver-scaled goldfish, and the entire school of blackskirts from the lack of acclimatization time. For some reason the air conditioning unit was not turned on-the outside unit, not just the thermostat-which we found out just in time for the hottest week of the year so far. Stardust got heatstroke, and Trouble may have too, but (thank God) I was able to get them down in the basement and cooled off in time before it killed them. Chinchillas are very easily killed by heat. Star seems to understand that I rescued her and is being less standoffish than she had been, but Trouble hasn't forgiven me for the rough handling as I tried to catch her (she even sprayed me) and won't have much to do with me anymore. I can only hope she eventually forgives me.**

**Well, enough with my problems. I hope the chapter was at least worth the wait. ^^; I also posted Dragon Kin: Prince of Wishes on here since the last chapter. It's kind of a crack fic but it's cannon for the story. It's about the first time Ysmir meets Clavicus Vile, and I made it partially because of one of my favorite fan theories that Clavicus Vile went through puberty some time between Oblivion and Skyrim, due to the differences in his characterization-including suddenly shucking off his best friend and complaining that he's not allowed to have any fun. It also serves as a tie-in for Masterless's crossover story with Ysmir and Onxy, his DB, in which the Daedra pits his two favorite Dragonborn against each other.**

**I did a Q&amp;A for the characters from Dragon Kin, both original and my versions of the cannon characters. I may do another if I get more questions for them, but it's up on Deviantart now if you're interested in reading it. Again, I have the same name there as here. **

**Thank you everyone who read and reviewed! Welcome new followers and favorites!**

**nightskye01: Thank you. :) There will be some far-reaching side effects for Ysmir's encounter with the Eye, but some of them won't be readily apparent for a long time. **

**FallenAngelCyril: You caught me: I have no beta. I do appreciate constructive criticism, even if it makes me pout occasionally. There are reasons for some of my side plots, but for this story you're right, and when I edit I might consider taking some of those chapters out and simply making them a separate, short fic. I will definitely be adding more Darva. I hadn't realized there was so little of her until you pointed it out. As for the purpose of those side plots, I always plan every story I write to be three distinct books. The Brats of Whiterun arch sets up plots for the next part of my imaginings, even though I may not ever actually write the story itself, since I have original works that need attention. ^^; Thank you for your feedback. :)**

**areslindragon: Yup, Miraak sensed Hahnu. :)**

**afeleon276: I can't really say anything to that until after next chapter. :P**

**Wynni: Unfortunately, I'm not going to go into Augie much, simply because there won't be enough time. I'm glad you liked the fight. Thank you for the hugs and cuddles. They were appreciated.**

**Little-Insomniac: I hope you have been getting some sleep! I also hoped you enjoyed Dragon!Dad in action! XD**

**Finwee Lord of Long Winds: Don't bum around too much in college; that's partially what bit me in the butt. It's a good time to get those pesky unpaid internships out of the way while you still don't have to pay rent. (Remember to claim your student loan interest on your taxes!)**

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**Next time: Miraak gets to clue his dragon mom in on what he's been up to while she was dead. **


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